Naughty (3 page)

“I gave you a name, like you asked.” His lower lip trembled. “But… but you want more than just a name, don’t you?”

“Gas station, on the right. Turn in.”

He did. Again Hammett kept her face down, away from the pump cameras.

“The automatic carwash. Pull up.”

He stopped the car next to a credit card kiosk, which allowed a person to pick the wash they wanted.

“You’re a rich guy, Stu. Get the Ultimate Wash. Comes with an undercarriage cleanse and Turtle Wax. Seems like a good deal.”

“My credit card is in my wallet.”

“So whip it out, stud.”

Hands shaking, wincing in apparent pain, he reached for his back pocket and managed to pull out an AmEx Platinum from a calf leather wallet. The kiosk thanked him in a robotic voice, saying his Ultimate Wash would take three minutes.

“Roll up the window and pull in,” Hammett ordered.

“You’re going to kill me.”

“I’m going to give you a chance to live, Stu. That’s the truth. Now pull into the goddamn carwash.”

He drove into the Y-shaped conveyor track which caught his left front tire.

“Put it in neutral.”

He did, full-on crying now. The conveyor engaged with a mechanical whir, pulling them into the carwash. Foamy soap dripped onto the windshield in obscene clumps.

“Now unzip your fly,” Hammett told him.

“What?”

Hammett stabbed the scalpel into the top of the dashboard.

“You have exactly sixty seconds to castrate yourself, Stu, or I’ll shoot you in the head.”

Lupowitz stared at her, jaw dropping open.

“Fifty-five seconds.” Hammett raised the .38.

Lupowitz glanced at the scalpel, then reached for his car door. He got it open, but his seatbelt prevented him from jumping out, just as she’d anticipated. Hammett jabbed the barrel of the gun under his flabby neck.

“Close the door and start cutting. Fifty seconds.”

Lupowitz closed the door, some foam speckling his expensive suit.

“I… I can’t,” he blubbered.

Hammett kept her eyes on him, seeking the radio with her free hand. She turned it on and cranked the volume up. Some obnoxious Top 40 crap.

She continued to count down in her head.

When she got to thirty, Lupowitz unzipped his fly.

At twenty, he tugged the scalpel out of the dashboard.

The car passed through the mitter curtain—hanging cloth strips that undulated across the foamy windshield.

With ten seconds left, Lupowitz surprised Hammett and actually began to cut.

The music covered his screaming. It also covered her shot to his temple, because he didn’t finish in time, only managing to complete half the job.

Hammett took his wallet and cell phone from his jacket, putting them into her pack. During the rinse cycle, Hammett opened her door and stepped out into the steamy waterfall. She walked back the way she came, tucking the gun into her fanny pack, and strolled out the carwash entrance. Head down, she walked off the gas station property before Lupowitz’s car made it through the other side.

In the California sun, she was dry within three blocks.

By the time she’d walked back to her parked rental car, she’d ditched the floppy hat, tossing it into a sidewalk garbage can. She should have also wiped down and ditched the gun. Getting caught with it would be an instant conviction, and the agency she worked for would no doubt deny she existed. Also, because she hadn’t used gloves, there were microscopic powder burns on her hand from when she’d fired it. A simple test could link her to the gunpowder residue on what was left of Stu’s head.

Yet she kept the weapon. In expectation of things to come.

It had been a sloppy hit. But Hammett was beaming just the same. While she should have been exhausted, she felt even more alive, more wired, than when she’d killed Rod.

And she was just getting started.

The room Hammett found in L.A.’s Chinatown was one normally rented by the hour. Hammett knew Chinese, and
Hóu hòisàm gindóu néih
was the Cantonese pronunciation of the characters on the marquee, which meant
pleased to meet you
.

The Pleased To Meet You Motel. A perfect name for a dive where Triad gangsters pimped their recently acquired hookers. Prior to arriving, Hammett had found a Fredrick’s of Hollywood shop and bought some appropriate slutwear. Fishnets, thigh high stilettos, a black PVC micro mini skirt and a black lace bustier. She rounded out the ensemble with a peaked PVC dominatrix cap, the kind brought into vogue by the military during WWII.

She paid for the room in cash, which was another reason for her seedy choice in lodging. All legitimate hotels demanded ID, and her current fake driver’s license and credit cards were traceable by her employer. Her handler, a man on the phone with an electronic voice modulator she knew only as Isaac, wasn’t one to fuck around with. If he knew she’d gone off-mission, there would be consequences. Better for him not to know.

It was the kind of motel where there was no lobby, and all the rooms faced the parking lot. As expected, her accommodations were bare bones. Cheap bed, cheap dresser, missing tiles in the shower, a TV that used quarters to turn it on. But it had an L.A. phonebook in the nightstand, and Hammett quickly found Tex Darling’s studio number under
adult video production
.

Using Lupowitz’s cell phone, a Motorola RAZR, she called the number and wasn’t surprised to get Darling’s answering service. Hammett hung up without saying anything. Then she went out to the rental car and found some quarters in the cup holder that she’d been using for toll roads. Back in her room Hammett pushed a few into the coin-op TV and flipped through a few porno stations until she found local news about the car wash murder. She watched for a moment, but apparently they hadn’t released the victim’s name.

She only had a small window of time, but Hammett decided to go for it.

Besides the coin-op adult movies and bedbugs infested with STDs, this motel offered free WiFi included with the room. Hammett logged onto the Internet, then entered Hydra’s backdoor to the U.S. Treasury Department. A minute later she had Tex Darling’s last three years’ 1099s, along with his current address and two phone numbers, and she assumed one was his home and the other his cell.

She tied her hair in pigtails and laid out on the scuzzy bed, bra down and nipples exposed, one arm over her head to make her breasts flatten out to look less developed. With her other hand she took a pic of herself, chewing her lower lip, using Lupowitz’s RAZR. Then she texted the pic to both of Darling’s numbers, followed by this message.

It’s Stu L. Got a PYT that’s hot to trot. Vid for $$$?

In pedophile parlance, PYT was
pretty young thing
. If this didn’t get Darling’s attention, she could always pay him a visit at his home. But Hammett didn’t know if he was there. He might be out for the night, or the week. He might be having a party with twenty gangsters. He might be home alone, but with a killer burglar system and a footlocker full of constitutionally protected Second Amendment ordnance. Luring him out was easier, and allowed Hammett to control the setting.

She waited, watching Asian pornography on the pay-per TV until her change ran out. Though Hammett felt empowered by her sexuality, even when used in the line of duty, she believed porn was a small step down from stripping and a small step up from prostitution. Lots of exploitation and victimization there. That didn’t bother her. Adult women were free to make their own decisions, even bad ones. Children, on the other hand, were innocent. There was a difference between making poor life choices and being abused under the age of consent.

Eighteen minutes later, Lupowitz’s phone buzzed with a text reply.

Have camera, will travel. Where?

Hammett punched in the motel’s address, and gave her room number.

C U in 30,
Darling texted back.

Perfect.

She changed out of her slutwear and into steel toe combat boots, relaxed fit chinos, and a tight shirt, replacing her pigtails with a ponytail. She kept the PVC military domme hat. Any possible witnesses would remember the distinctive hat, not her face.

Then she went out to her rental car and hunkered down with Lupowitz’s cell phone and gun, waiting for Darling to arrive. She was only mildly surprised when an SUV screeched into the motel parking lot, and four guys piled out.

None had movie equipment. All were armed.

Either Hammett had violated some sort of code of contact by impersonating Lupowitz, or Darling had gotten wind of his murder and had come prepared.

She would know soon enough.

Hammett watched them approach her room, handguns out. The three men in dark suits were standard muscle. Maybe mafia, or Darling’s bodyguards, or maybe he’d gotten them at rent-a-thug. They were semi-pro, scoping out the parking lot, covering the guy who kicked in the door.

Darling stayed back a few paces and watched. His suit was different than the hired help, loud and flashy, a slick lavender color that matched what had to be a custom-dyed Stetson on his head. He was soft in the middle, and had a bulge in the back of his belt where he kept his gun. Or, considering Darling’s appearance, he probably called it a
roscoe
.

It took them less than a minute to case the tiny room and determine she wasn’t inside, and then they engaged in a henchmen huddle, apparently deciding one would stay behind and wait while Darling and the other two went back to their vehicle.

That’s when Hammett stepped out of her rental. Adopting a rock-solid Weaver stance, she dropped the three goons with head shots and Darling by blowing out his right knee.

Four down in less than two seconds. Darling clutched at his leg and screamed rather than trying to reach his piece. Idiot. Hammett was on him in ten strides, kicking him in the face, stepping on his neck, and picking up his gun.

“I have money!” His voice was high pitched, frantic.

“It won’t help. I want information. Your distributor.”

Darling made a face like a dog who didn’t understand a command. Hammett placed her boot on what was left of his right knee and gave it a little weight. When Darling finished screaming, Hammett tried again.

“Who distributes your kiddie movies?”

“His name is Guterez! He’s in Tijuana!”

“Call him. Set up a meeting for tonight.”

Another confused expression. Another pain motivator. Darling quickly got the hint and dug his cell phone out of his silly, expensive suit jacket.

“Speaker phone,” Hammett ordered. “Tell him you’ve got some hot stuff to give him.”

He nodded, frantically dialing a number. Hammett checked the periphery. So far, no cops or onlookers or triad members looking to protect their whores. She muted out the ambient city noises to pinpoint any police sirens, but didn’t hear any. Even so, Hammett figured she had thirty seconds, tops, before she needed to leave the premises.

“Fernando? It’s Tex.
Que pasa, amigo
?”

“What you want, cabrón?”

“I’ve got a… uh… hot property for you.”

“So call my people, set up a screening.”

Hammett shook her head and raised her boot over Darling’s knee.

“No! It’s… um.. it’s too hot for that, Fernando. I need to get this to you right away. Tonight.”

“It better be worth my time, pendejo. Jack’s. One o’clock.”

Fernando hung up, and a dial tone came through the speakerphone.

“What is Jack’s?”

“Bar. In Avenida Revolución, the Zona Centro. They have a mechanical bull.”

“Describe Fernando.”

Tex hesitated. He obviously knew that his life would be over once he told Hammett that bit of info. Hammett got on one knee and bent over, staring into Tex’s wide, fear-filled eyes. Then she kissed him, her tongue darting in fast, her free hand on his head under his Stetson.

“It’s okay, lover,” she said. “I’m not going to kill you yet. I still need you. Now describe Fernando.”

Tex’s voice came out in a rasp, but his face relaxed a bit. “Short, maybe 5’6”. Mustache.”

“You’ve just described the entire male population of Mexico.”

And some of the women, Hammett thought. Didn’t they know about waxing south of the border?

“He drives a stretch Caddy, black, with horns on the grill. Always wears silver tipped boots. Rattlesnake. Lucchese. Expensive as hell.”

Hammett knew the brand and owned a pair, though she preferred her Tony Lamas.

“Is he armed?”

“Always. And he has bodyguards.”

“How many?” Hammett asked.

“Two. Sometimes four.”

She shook her head slightly. “No. How many children have you videotaped getting raped?”

Tex’s eyes rounded again, the whites showing all around his cornea.

Hammett emptied Stu’s gun into Tex’s crotch, then hammered the butt of the gun against his face enough times to take most of the flesh off. She finished him off by smashing both of his eye sockets to mush. He was still breathing when she used his shirttails to wipe her prints off the gun. If he lived—which was unlikely—he wouldn’t be harming any more kids. Not blind and with his junk blown off.

Hammett scooped up his gun, and the weapons dropped by his henchmen. She also took their shoulder holsters, pleased that one was left-handed and one right-handed.

There were still no police sirens.

Too bad for the residents. Criminals were free to do what they wanted.

“Shitty neighborhood,” Hammett said.

In the trunk of the rental she had a box of baby wipes. Hammett got the blood off her hands, discarded the wipes in the parking lot, and then got in the car and headed south.

Getting into Mexico was cake. It was getting out that would be a problem.

Hammett buzzed down the San Diego Freeway through the border checkpoint in a briskly moving line of cars. She’d been driving for three hours, stopping once to refuel and pee, and the long period of inactivity had made her antsy.