Recoil (33 page)

“That's a load of shit, man.”

“It's the truth.”

“You don't look like no junkies.”

“It's for somebody else.”

“Sure it is.”

Belmont showed his teeth. “Who?” It was the first word he'd spoken.

“What's the difference?” Mathieson said. “You wouldn't know her. We're both from out West.”

Cestone said, “I don't buy this, man.”

“Please listen to me. Either we're cops or we're not. If we're cops you don't want to shoot us—you'd get heat all over you. If we're not cops then we're telling the truth. What have you got to lose? Either way you're going to have to let us out of here.”

“Man, I don't
have
to let you do nothing. I can leave you here all shot to pieces. Nobody ever knows it was Cestone.”

“If we're cops then the rest of the cops know who we're shadowing. But then if we're cops we wouldn't travel alone, would we. We'd be wired—there'd be a radio truck out there on Bell Boulevard listening to this conversation and they've heard your voices and your name.”

“I didn't see no radio truck,” Belmont said.

Cestone glanced at him. “I think we rough them up a little, teach them about tailing people.”

Mathieson said, “Take it easy. We haven't done anything to you. We only want to talk.”

“You annoy me, man.”

“I wasn't trying to—”

Belmont scowled. “Wait a minute, Gregory.”

“What, man?”

“Wait a minute—wait a minute. I know him.”

“Who?”

“He's changed his face a little. I ain't seen him in years. But the voice—yeah, it's him. Merle. Eddie Merle, the lawyer. Gregory, there's a contract out on him.”

3

Right now had to be their move because Cestone was still absorbing the slow process of the chauffeur's recognition and both men were in the grip of surprise.

Mathieson flashed a glance at Roger and saw the muscles tense under Roger's coat.

Do the unexpected. At least it may throw their aim off
. Homer's voice echoed in his recollection.

Roger was diving away—back toward the car—and Belmont's gun instinctively turned that way and it gave Mathieson room to move.

Two long sudden strides put him right between them.

His left hand had been outraised. He snapped it down against Belmont's revolver. Deflected the weapon. Made a grab for Belmont's wrist—and missed.

Still turning: wheeling, staying in motion, mingling, circling. Alarm had propelled Cestone backward and he had his automatic out very fast but he couldn't fire because Mathieson kept moving and spinning, his grip fastened on Belmont's sleeve—Cestone couldn't shoot without risking Belmont; and then Roger was all over Cestone, a bear hug from behind, locking Cestone's arms down.

Wrist lock, Mr. Merle, and don't ever be dainty—these people don't hand out second chances. Use both hands. Use them hard
.

Still wheeling, he clapped his right hand over Belmont's fist, revolver and all. Left hand on the elbow. Stop, whip the knee up, smash Belmont's arm down against it. Fulcrum-pivot. Like cracking a stick of kindling across an upraised knee.

The bones were tough; Belmont's forearm did not snap, but he heard the grunt and saw the pain in Belmont's eyes and felt the revolver hit his own knee when it fell from Belmont's numbed hand.

Don't turn loose too fast. A little hurt's no guarantee you've taken the fight out of the man. Or the man out of the fight
.

Rain in his eyes—hard to see. He flung Belmont in front of him, whirling close behind the man, hanging on to the injured arm with his right fist, twisting it up behind the man's back. Belmont cried out at last. Mathieson hooked his left arm around the neck, around the windpipe, pulling the head back against his chest. Using Belmont as a shield against Cestone's gun because things were uncertain in the downpour, he couldn't tell who had the upper hand there.

Belmont tried to struggle. Mathieson twisted the bruised arm. Belmont screamed—a raucous terrible noise.

Cestone was big; Roger was on his back but Cestone broke loose and Mathieson saw him lift the automatic—Cestone was going to shoot, right across the top of Belmont's shoulder.

Mathieson put his knee in Belmont's back and shoved him against Cestone.

Collision. Cestone's feet slid on the mud; he went over on his back. Belmont fell on top of him. Roger was getting to his feet, sliding in the muck, scrambling. Mathieson walked right in. Cestone's arms had gone out behind him to break his fall; he was pushing Belmont off him, looking for a gun; Mathieson found the automatic and kicked out, full force, right foot. From the feel of it he couldn't tell whether he'd kicked the gun or the hand but it was all the same: The automatic slithered away.

But he'd lost his own footing on the slick. He fell on his side and bruised his hip against his pocketful of coins.

It was right against his nose—the revolver that Belmont had dropped.

He got one knee under him and thrust the revolver out at arm's length. “All
right
.”

Roger was standing up—casual, a grin behind the beard, eyes flashing: enjoying this.

Cestone was half erect. He straightened slowly, feet spaced wide. The immobility of his face was horrifying.

Belmont crawled around in the mud in a circle, moaning, moving like a half-crushed beetle. Roger kicked him in the rump. Mathieson said, “On your feet, you're not hurt.”

Belmont kept whimpering and crawling. Mathieson said mildly, “I kicked the automatic away. You won't find it.”

Belmont let out a sigh of disgust and got to his feet.

Cestone had come up from hands and knees. His fists had been in mud and Mathieson should have thought of that. He detected it too late. Cestone flung the mud in his face.

He threw up his left hand. Not in time: The muck of gravel and soaked earth stung his face, blinding him.

He fell back, unbalanced, slipping; down hard on his rump. Kept his grip on the revolver; desperately raked mud out of his eyes. In one instant's flash he felt bitter irony: the ammonia in George Ramiro's eyes—it was a kind of justice.

He heard a whack of fist on flesh. Eyes on fire he stepped back and to one side. If one of them grabbed for the gun now …

The slurp of shoes in mud; another scuffle, another fist fell. He swung the gun savagely back and forth in front of him and kept clawing at his eyes with his left hand. He squeezed his cheeks up, squinted tight and tried to peer through the caked lids.

A shadow wavered in the blurred translucence of his vision: diminishing, fading—he began to hear the running footfalls.

One of them was running away.

He cleared his eyes enough to see Cestone leap over the front corner of the Mercedes and run past the brick corner.

Belmont swung a wild blow at Roger; it whistled past Roger and Mathieson saw him move in to strike but Roger's foot slipped an inch and it threw him off just enough. Belmont wheeled away and ran.

Roger stood in a fury. “Shoot the son of a bitch.”

But Mathieson let him go.

Roger spread his feet apart for support and propped his arms akimbo. “Shee-yit.”

Mathieson turned angrily and threw the revolver with a pitcher's might, soaring it above the mesh fence, down into the embankment cut.

Roger started laughing. “Look at us. Couple of tar babies.”

Too enraged to speak, Mathieson walked to the Mercedes. The engine was still running. He backed it into the doorway and took the keys with him when he got out; he threw the keys far out into the mud pond. He walked right past Roger and got into their own car. Backing and switching, he reversed the car carefully, wheels spinning in the mud. When he drew up beside Roger he leaned across and pushed the door open. “Get in, damn it.”

Roger got in, coated with mud. “You got to admit it's funny. Two big heroes making asshole fools out of theirselves.”

“Goddamnit.”

“Hey, old horse, gentle down. Look here, we hurt them more'n they hurt us. Mexican standoff at worst but I think maybe we won the fight on points.”

“Points. Aagh. We lost Cestone, we lost his connection. We blew it, Roger.”

“Ain't nothing can't be got at from some other angle, old horse. It's not as if we blew the whole enchilada or anything.”

“I guess I'm just feeling like a stupid fool. If we pull anything that clumsy again we may get our heads handed to us.”

Trembling badly he put it in gear and eased through the passage to the boulevard.

4

“You're both lucky to be alive.” Vasquez was angry. “What was it, sheer bravado? Now they know who you are, they know you're in New York. You've brought us a great deal of trouble.”

“I don't think so.”

“Don't be a stubborn fool. Of course you have. They know they're under attack now. They didn't know it before. It makes all the difference. They'll batten everything down.”

Homer sat on the bed with a sour smile on his small mouth. He watched Mathieson and Roger scrape the mud from their coats. After a moment Homer stood up. “Better give me your car keys.”

“What for?”

“Got to assume Cestone got a make on the license plate. I'll turn the car in and go to some other rental outfit and get another one.”

“And that's one more thing,” Vasquez said. “On the rental voucher we used the address of this hotel. We'll have to move. Now—tonight.”

“All right, we'll move.”

Roger gave up trying to repair his coat. He stood up. “I'm headin' for the showers. Clean clothes.
Then
I'll pack and join you gents. First things first.”

“We'll call you when we're ready,” Vasquez said.

Roger left. Mathieson threw his coat aside. “You're overreacting, Diego. I'm surprised. Sooner or later Pastor had to find out who was after him. If it hadn't happened this way I'd have told him myself.”

“You should have waited. Our job's become much harder now. We may not reach him at all.”

“We'll reach him. What's really on your mind?”

Vasquez had the bureau drawer open. He was slapping stacks of folded clothing into the suitcase. Abruptly he stopped, turned and faced Mathieson. The anger was still flashing in his eyes.

Mathieson prompted him: “Well?”

“You employed the services of my firm. You gave us an assignment, albeit unique, that I have done my best to carry out, and now you seem to wish to persist in getting in the way of it.”

“Don't be silly. I only—”

“You very nearly blew it. You may in fact have blown it. And yet you insist on keeping me in the dark about the most vital part of your scheme.”

“And you resent that. Is that what this is about?”

“It raises the question who's in command here.”

“I am. We settled that a long time ago.”

“Not quite,” Vasquez said. “You're my client, not my commander. When you employ the services of a firm such as mine, it's understood that tactical decisions and methodology are my perquisites. I'm the professional here.”

“Do you want to withdraw?”

“I want to know what's in your mind, as a first step. I want to know why you wanted to trace Gregory Cestone to his heroin connection. I want to know what importance a shabby drug peddler can have in your scheme. I don't intend to proceed without that knowledge.”

Mathieson opened the second drawer and transferred the underwear into the suitcase. He went into the bathroom, gathered his toiletries, dumped the armload into the suitcase, bagged his dirty shoes in plastic and put them on top. It was an untidy job and he had to sit on the suitcase to close it. He brought out the second bag and opened it—it was half filled with packets of Ramiro's money, the hand grenade from Ramiro's car, the kit of tools and the makeup kit that he'd used. He stripped off his suit and crumpled it into the suitcase and shut it. He went back to the closet and got into his remaining suit and his clean shoes.

Finally he set both bags by the door and turned to face Vasquez. The detective stood between the bureau and the window, one shoulder propped against the wall, tapping a pencil against his teeth like a professor waiting impatiently for a student to respond with the right answer to a complicated classroom question.

Mathieson said, “Has it occurred to you that I may have kept you in the dark for your own protection?”

“Against what?”

“Against the possibility of your being charged with complicity in a serious legal offense.”

“I've already conspired with you in the commission of several criminal acts.”

“Those aren't likely to be reported—and even if they were they're relatively trivial. You'd never go to trial for any part you've played up to now. Maybe the worst you could face would be a charge of conspiracy to commit extortion, but there'd never be enough hard evidence to put you in serious trouble.”

“And now you're contemplating something more dangerous.”

“If it goes wrong,” Mathieson said, “I could be had up for a capital felony charge. I don't want you dragged into that.”

“What capital felony? Murder?”

“No. We've already discussed that.”

“Kidnapping?”

He hesitated. “Yes. If it goes wrong.”

Vasquez shook his head—an expression of disbelief. “You amaze me. You draw the line at a simple killing, yet you don't turn a hair at the prospect of kidnapping, which can be the vilest of human sins.”

“I will not kill. It's that simple.”

“You're absurd, Mr. Merle. Absurd.”

“That's your opinion. Are you willing to proceed, knowing we may get involved in that kind of risk?”

“Certainly. If I know the nature of the scheme and if in my judgment it has an appropriate chance to succeed. Unlike you, Mr. Merle, I don't draw artificial lines. I've never quite understood people who did. I've known dope dealers who drew the line at rape. I've known killers who drew the line at dealing drugs. I've never understood any of them. Once one crosses the line of morality any further distinctions are arbitrary and capricious.”