Saguaro Riptide, page 10
Wyetta’s drinking seemed to be getting worse ever since the Komoko thing had started up. Just last week Rorie had found a bottle of JD stashed in the filing cabinet in Wyetta’s office. Not that she was snooping or anything—she’d opened the cabinet at Wyetta’s direction, looking for a file. But she hadn’t dared say a word about the bottle because she knew what Wyetta would do.
She’d get mad. Accuse Rorie of invading her privacy. And then Rorie would be the one who’d end up feeling guilty, like she’d done something wrong.
She wondered if the boozing was what the sheriff was thinking about right now. Wyetta looked sure enough disgusted. Maybe she was disgusted with herself. Maybe she was about to say, “Okay, Rorie. This is gonna be the last one. Ever.” Slam it down her gullet, savor one long and appreciative sigh, then throw the bottle into the fireplace with the cactus andirons that she’d ordered from that Ralph Lauren catalog. And maybe she’d just forget all about the Komoko thing while she was at it, and then they could get back to the way things used to be.
Slap leather to the night. Do something crazy. Take off in the Camaro. Ride hard and ride fast until they hit Vegas. Go buckin’-bronc-wild with their charge cards in some of those fancy all-night boutiques the big casinos had.
Those were the things Rorie was thinking about. But not Wyetta. Rorie discovered that PDQ, because suddenly the sheriff emerged from her own personal fog and said, “If we only knew who Komoko was calling on that damn cellular phone of his.”
Rorie nodded. At least Wyetta had broken her silence. At least her comment acknowledged the fact that Rorie was in the room.
“That would sure help us some,” Rorie agreed. “I wonder if there’s a way we could get ahold of Komoko’s phone records—”
“Wait just a goddamn minute.” Wyetta drained her drink and thunked the tumbler onto the redwood burl coffee table. “Where’d you put Komoko’s phone?”
“You’ve got it,” Rorie said, and she said it gently because she didn’t want to get into a fight; personal experience told her that the one thing that got Wyetta more riled than a bronc in a barn fire was a challenge to her memory.
“That night,” Rorie continued, “after we came back here . . . you had that drink to calm yourself down, and then you told me to put the phone—”
“In the library, behind my Wyatt Earp books.” Wyetta remembered, after all. “Wait here. I’ll go get it.”
Rorie took a deep breath. Maybe things weren’t so bad. It was just the Komoko thing. It was getting to Rorie, too. And the whole thing was really her fault, because she was the one who’d told Wyetta about Komoko in the first place. If she’d kept her mouth shut they wouldn’t be going through all this shit right now. But this shit couldn’t last forever. This was just what you called a bad patch, and once they got through it, together . . .
Rorie settled back on the couch, a Navajo-patterned monstrosity that smelled like old horse blankets. She sipped her O’Doul’s. Just a bad patch, she repeated, almost believing it this time, and once we get through it ... together—
Wyetta returned, cellular phone in hand. “Damn. I should have thought of this before. Komoko’s phone is one of those titties-on-a-bull models. It has all the whistles and bells— including a redial button. All we have to do is punch that button and presto, we’re in touch with the last person he talked to.” Wyetta didn’t wait for a reply. She punched REDIAL. Listened.
Five rings. An answering machine picked up. First came some music. Drums. A military cadence. Followed by a sprightly theme song . . .
Jesus, it was the theme from Hogan’s Heroes.
The music cut off abruptly. Somebody said, “Benteen residence. Nobody’s home. If you’re not a reporter, leave a message. Wait for the beep.”
Wyetta hit the OFF button and turned toward Rorie. “Well, we’re off and runnin’, cowgirl. The phone belongs to someone named Benteen.”
“A woman?”
“Yeah ... it was a woman’s voice on the machine. Why?”
“Little Miss Death-From-Above. Her name’s Kate Benteen.”
“Who?”
“You remember—the chicklet at the Five-and-Dime. The one in the black T-shirt and combat boots, the witness to Baddalach’s run-in with Jerry Caldwell. I was talking to her while you and the boxer did your little dance.”
“No shit? Her name’s Benteen?”
“No shit whatsoever.”
“Oh, man. What an act, pretending that she didn’t even know the pug. We’ll have to have us some serious girltalk with that little gash.” Wyetta walked over to the bar and grabbed her own telephone. “But first I’d better make some calls ... do a little checking up on Ms. Benteen.” The sheriff grabbed a pencil and a notebook and returned to the dead bovine chair.
“What do you want me to do?” Rorie asked.
Wyetta gave her a big smile. “How about rustling us up some dinner? There are a couple of T-bones in the fridge. There’s even some lettuce if you’ve a mind to make me eat my rabbit food. And I bought some of those Pop’n’Fresh biscuits you like, too. They’re in the freezer.”
“No problem,” Rorie said, because that was what she always said when Wyetta asked her to do something.
As she started for the kitchen she heard the unmistakable sound of Jack Daniel’s sloshing over ice.
But she did not turn around.
She did not speak a single word.
Instead she rustled up some dinner.
***
After her swim, Kate Benteen returned to her room. Sandy Kapalua-Dayton had put her in 23, which was right at the top of the stairs. Kate didn’t care. She might have, had she known that Jack Baddalach was in room 22, but she had no idea where the boxer had disappeared to.
The first thing Kate did was power up the air conditioner. HI-FAN. MAX A/C. She liked things cool. Then she took a shower and washed off all that chlorine. Motel pools always used way too much. Kids always took the rap for pissing in ’em, but Kate put the blame on turista guys who drank too much beer. She’d known more than a few guys like that in her time.
She toweled off, shredded the safety seal on the bottle of Murine she’d bought at the five-and-dime, and dribbled a few drops into her eyes. For a second she felt really good, like she could see the whole world really clearly.
Then she blinked and quite suddenly ersatz tears were rolling down her cheeks.
Benteen wiped them away. Swearing at herself, she pulled on a pair of jeans and a clean T-shirt. Another black one. This one said KILL 'EM ALL & LET GOD SORT 'EM OUT.
She cleaned her guns even though they weren’t dirty. It was an old habit, and hard to break. She had a Heckler & Koch USP .45 and a Benelli Super 90 shotgun, and she checked the action on both after reassembling the weapons.
She stowed the Benelli with her other gear. While she was up, she grabbed a couple boxes of ammo—Winchester 185-grain Silvertips and Federal 230-grain Hydra-Shoks—then juggled them, trying to make a decision.
After a minute she set the Heckler—still unloaded—on her nightstand, because suddenly the least little decision seemed to require way too much effort.
It was too damn quiet and she knew it. She wished she’d bought a couple of paperbacks at the store. Maybe a new Mack Bolan, something that would distract her. She didn’t want to think about what she was doing in Pipeline Beach because she didn’t know if she’d be very happy with the answer to that question if she went looking for it.
Screw it, then. She wasn’t going to think about it.
The TV remote was bolted to the nightstand. The TV itself was bolted to the dresser. The whole setup made her want to break something.
Kate ignored the temptation and turned on the TV instead.
Just in time to see some guy get thrown off a train.
He rolled down a grassy knoll and came to a stop stark-staring-dead-as-you-please.
Then the theme music started up. Twangy sixties spy guitar set to a tiki-torch beat. Patented Henry Mancini. Kate didn’t need to see the credits to know that the picture was Charade, starring Audrey Hepburn and Cary Grant.
The plot wasn’t what you’d call alarmingly original. Still, Kate didn’t hit the OFF button. Didn’t even hit mute or change the channel. She just sat there, staring, her worst couch potato instincts taking hold.
Audrey was in Gay Paree, and her husband had turned up dead—he was the stiff who’d been tossed from the train (a jowly little gent who, Benteen noted with her signature sense of sarcasm, looked like he’d have about as much chance of wedding Ms. Hepburn as he’d have being mistaken for Cary Grant). There were all these menacing strangers hovering about the exotic environs through which Ms. Hepburn wove her way, including the aforementioned Monsieur Grant, and each and every one of them seemed to be real interested in discovering the extent—and location—of Ms. Hepburn’s inheritance.
Parts of the picture were still pretty cute. Like Audrey ordering everything on the menu when she got nervous. Eating every bite of it, too. And, of course, her wardrobe was the best. Hey, after all, this was Paris, right?
But other parts of the picture that had never bothered Benteen before got under her skin in a surprisingly efficient way tonight. Like the way Mr. Grant wrapped Ms. Hepburn around his fucking little finger with the least little bon mot that slithered out of his mouth. Jesus. Tonight it was almost more than Kate could take.
Grant and Hepburn “met cute,” of course—movie parlance for tossing the romantic leads together in an oh-so-clever way. In this case, meeting cute involved an Alpine ski resort, a precocious child, a water pistol and a few snowballs, heavy on the witty repartee. But that Benteen could have lived with, because it was nothing compared to what Mr. Grant put Ms. Hepburn through once things got rolling.
For one thing, he had about a million stories—a different one each time Audrey batted her eyes. And the way she batted them, melting every time he turned on the charm. All that well-practiced sincerity while he tried to explain his inconsistent behavior, even though he was lying. And Audrey fell for it, hook, line . . . et cetera et cetera. And then Grant reeled her in with that goofy I’m really not a narcissistic stuffed shirt act. Acting silly, taking a shower with his clothes on, like that made him some kind of boho daredevil. Christ. A guy who probably lost half a day every time he passed a mirror.
Wow. Suddenly, Benteen’s spine went dress parade stiff. The whole thing was hitting way too close to home. Like the other night, punching the button on her answering machine up there in the big lonesome called Grizzly Gulch, Montana. First message she’d gotten in three weeks, but hey, who was counting?
And then hearing his voice. Christ, her breath catching in her throat, her heart beating fast. After all this time, he could still do that to her . . .
No. Forget that. That wasn’t what was bothering her. It was the movie. Cary Grant. Audrey Hepburn.
She concentrated on the television. Refocused on Audrey and the way she handled the bad guys. But that annoyed her, too. Audrey sitting in a phone booth, shaking like a scared poodle while James Coburn flicked lit matches at her darling little Givenchy outfit. Audrey’s eyes going coronary-wide when George Kennedy threatened her with his mechanical hand.
Man oh man. That was definitely more than enough. Kate snatched up the Heckler, grabbed the box of Hydra-Shoks. Tore it open and enjoyed each sharp little click as she filled the empty clip to capacity.
Yeah. That was what Audrey needed. A Heckler, or maybe something a little more elegant. Hey, after all, this was Audrey Hepburn. Maybe a Smith & Wesson M442 .38 snubbie would do the trick. Six little Remington Golden Saber cartridges. A few tugs of the index finger, a few perfectly measured kicks of gunpowder, and that would be that for Mssrs. Coburn and Kennedy.
But those two, they were the easy problems. They were like the boxer Benteen had met poolside, kind of ham-fisted, not real fast on their feet (mentally speaking, anyway). Everything was out there where you could see it with a guy like that, easy to skate around if you had your own moves down.
In short, Coburn and Kennedy weren’t like Cary Grant. They didn’t say oh-so-witty things, and they couldn’t make you melt in that completely illogical and uncontrollable way, and they could never, ever, under any circumstances, make you do anything that you really didn’t want to do. Especially when you damn well knew better.
Kate Benteen set the gun on the night table and stared at the TV.
Cary Grant pulled Audrey Hepburn into one final clinch. She accepted it eagerly.
Benteen bristled. How could Audrey do that when the smartass had played her for such a sap? Benteen shook her head. Man oh man, the day she relied on a man to bail her size 7 ass out of a jam, that would be the day she’d hang it up for good—
And that was when it hit Benteen—like one of those cop-killer rounds that rob you of every sensation but the one they provide—the undeniable source of her inescapable unease.
Instantly, she jabbed the shackled remote, expertly spearing the OFF button with her index finger, but it was much too late.
For the image was there, a hot red wound drilled through her consciousness.
Cary Grant.
Vincent Komoko.
Two of a fucking kind.
***
The phone in Baddalach’s motel room was busy for a really long time. That worried Johnny Da Nang, because the boxer didn’t seem like much of a talker.
Johnny had gotten the phone number for Baddalach’s room from the lady at the front desk of the Saguaro Riptide. He figured it wouldn’t hurt to call her back, double-check the number, make sure he hadn’t gone dyslexic while writing it down or something.
Well, the lady was real nice about it. Kind of kidding him, saying he didn’t sound old enough to forget anything. Kind of flirting. Anyway, the number checked out, and then somehow one thing led to another and they got to talking. And it turned out that the lady—who had a real growly Suzanne Pleshetteish kind of voice; y’know, the kind of voice where you could picture some chick who smoked unfiltereds right down to the wrist—well, anyway, she got to talking to Johnny, and it turned out that her husband had been in the music business.
Some kind of small world, huh?
The husband was dead now, though. Too bad. Johnny had never heard of him, anyway—some guitar player from the sixties who did that Beach Blanket Banzai kind of stuff. Still, Johnny enjoyed talking to the woman. He made sure to mention the name of his band a couple times. He kind of worked it into the conversation in an offhand way—Johnny Da Nang and the Napalms . . . hahaha, yeah, some things never change, you gotta have a catchy name to make it in this game, don’tcha?
It couldn’t hurt. Maybe Ms. Pleshette’s vocal clone would be down there at WalMart one day, see his CD and remember that nice kid she talked to on the phone.
Hey, you never knew, y’know?
Johnny stuck with it for a couple more minutes. He didn’t want to be rude. Then the lady said something about checking on her dog, and that gave Johnny the opportunity to bid her a speedy adieu.
He shifted the receiver to his other ear—Jesus, a couple more years of telephone networking and he’d have cauliflower ears that would make Jack Baddalach jealous—and then he redialed.
The boxer picked up on the second ring. “H’lo?”
“Jack?”
“Yeah?”
“It’s me, Johnny.”
A pause. “What’s up?”
“You’re not gonna like this, Jack.”
“What?”
“Well, I went over to your place this afternoon. And there was this guy there—”
Baddalach interrupted. “Black guy? A Muslim?”
“Yeah, he had one of those little African hats and everything . . . even a bow tie. How’d you know?”
“Coconut telegraph.” Baddalach sighed. “What happened? Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m okay, but Frankenstein—”
Baddalach swore. “Did the son of a bitch kill my dog?”
“No. He didn’t kill him. But I took him to the vet when it was all over, and, man, I just don’t know if I can cover the bill. You should see the pathetic little sucker. I mean, he’s tough and all. Like Rin Tin Tin or something. But the poor little pup’s all doped up, mummified-looking, and the vet’s got him in some kind of doggy traction—”
“You listen to me, Johnny. You get in touch with Freddy G at the Casbah. Tell him to take care of the vet bill.”
“Yeah. Sure, Jack ... I hate to tell you, but you’re gonna need some new furniture, too. The guy was pretty rough on it.”
“Screw that. Are you okay? I mean, Jesus, did the guy rough you up, too?”
“No ... but ... I don’t know how to tell you this, Jack. Oh, man, it’s kind of embarrassing. And I feel like a real Oscar Meyer wiener, but the guy had a gun.” Johnny sucked a deep breath before continuing. “I told him where you are.”
“You told him the truth?”
“Yeah. I gave him the name of the motel. The Saguaro Riptide. Pipeline Beach, Arizona. Right?”
“Yeah. Good job, Johnny.”
“You’re glad that I told him?”
“Uh-huh ... I’m looking forward to meeting the dog-beating son of a bitch,” Jack said, and Johnny could almost picture the evil grin on his face.
They said their good-byes. Johnny hung up.
He patted Frankenstein’s head and opened another can of food.
Frankenstein went to work on that dish of Alpo like he didn’t have a care in the world.
Johnny grinned. The vet had said ol’ Franky was well named. Said the pup had the constitution of a monster, all right.
Johnny didn’t want Jack Baddalach to know that, though.
He wanted Baddalach thoroughly stoked.
Because Johnny was really enjoying the picture that was forming in his mind—one Muslim hitman busted up good, former-light heavyweight-champion-of-the-world style.
