Chapter Fifteen

 

          Yaro ran into Sonny and Teddy on his way up the back stairs. It was eight-thirty in the morning, and they were on their way out to Sharp Park for another shooting lesson.

          “Good morning, Colonel,” he said. “How’s our locksmith coming along with his marksmanship?”

          “Not too bad, I guess,” said Sonny, in a dry voice. “He could probably kill a cow now, if it was close enough.”

          “Well, that’s just fine,” said Yaro. He turned to Teddy, who was wincing noticeably, and slapped him on the back. “Don’t let the Colonel get you down, Theodore. You don’t make Colonel unless you’re a natural mean son-of-a-bitch. Isn’t that right, Colonel?”

          “Oh yeah, Mr. Brightman,” said Sonny. “Fuckin’ right as hell. Listen, you be here around noon? We got to discuss a couple of things.”

          “No problem, Colonel.” Yaro gave Sonny a little salute. “See you at noon. We can do lunch.”

          “Yeah,” said Sonny, snorting. “Let’s go, Teddy.”

          Yaro stepped into the kitchen and went to the icebox for a beer. Derek was at the window in his usual robot-like posture. He could hear snoring from the bedroom. As he headed towards the tape machine, Carter came out of the bathroom, wearing a robe.

          “Hello, Carter. Anything exciting happen while I was out?”

          Carter looked more tired than usual. He glanced over at the window, then back at Yaro.

          “No. Everything was normal. Two phone calls. Not Arab One, I don’t think. Just the usual voices.” He seemed nervous.

          “Everything OK, Carter? This routine starting to get you down?”

          “No. No, everything’s fine. Mr. Brightman, is it OK if we take a walk outside sometime, just for exercise?”

          “A little cabin fever, eh, Carter? I told you it wasn’t going to be like the movies. But we don’t want to attract any attention in the neighborhood, you understand.” He punched Carter lightly on the arm. “You’ll be going to the range when we switch shifts, getting some air. And hand-to-hand combat training will begin soon, I’ve talked to the Colonel about it. Just be patient. Try to stay focused. It’s all part of the work we’re doing here.”

          Carter nodded. Somehow he didn’t seem to have his usual puppy-dog enthusiasm.

          “OK. I don’t mean to complain. Guess I’ll get some sleep now.”

          Yaro went to the tape recorder and started getting ready for his bullshit transcription act. Derek hadn’t even looked around.

          “How’s it going, Derek?”

          “Situation normal,” said Derek, still not looking around. Yaro tried to imagine Derek in any situation that was normal, like having sex. It wasn’t a pleasant thought.

          “How’s the shooting coming?”

          “Fine. The Colonel says I’m a fast learner. Excuse me, Checker, there’s some activity.”

          Yaro looked out the window. The van was being loaded up, a little later than usual.

          “Looks like they’re a little behind schedule today.”

          “Yes. And there’s only two of them. One left the house just a while ago, right before you came in.”

          “That’s very good, Derek,” said Yaro. “Keep up the good work.” What a bunch of gung-ho assholes, he thought. He put on the earphones and started the tape. He remembered this one. Two guys sitting on a tractor, talking about who knows what. This routine of running back and forth, making up shit for the transcriptions, and backslapping the four biggest morons he had ever met was starting to get him down, in fact. He was in the mood for some excitement, or better, some sex. Maybe he’d try to get away and look up Carly tonight. She was a good lay, when she wasn’t stoned or jonesing. He should call Otto this morning, too. Maybe the bomb was ready. 

 

 

 

          “I’m telling you, Tony, this girl is going to make you rich.”

          Tony Squire watched as Carlo Latteiri shifted his fat body around in the chair and took another sip of coffee. I’m already rich, Carlo, he thought, but of course you don’t know that. They were having a twelve o’clock breakfast and business meeting at The Dipsea Cafe, in Mill Valley. Tony lived in Mill Valley, so did Carlo. A lot of musicians lived in the little town just north of Sausalito, ten minutes from the Golden Gate bridge. In the seventies it had become a kind of bedroom community for Bay Area rockers, a hip retreat from the city, sheltered from the summer fog by Mount Tamalpais, and convenient to the giant watershed of woods and lakes that stretched over the northern peninsula to the ocean. The big real estate boom in the eighties had pushed a lot of them out, raising rents and gradually replacing them with doctors, lawyers, and various yuppie types, along with big time dope dealers and retired gurus. The dot com scene had moved the process further along, and lots of cats were moving north now, to Petaluma and the Russian River area. But Tony still lived there, and so did Carlo, who had inherited money, and did his manager thing so that he could move with the cool musician crowd and be sucked up to by snooty maitre’ Ds.

          “She’s got the talent, the looks. She’s got natural stage presence, man, she knows how to work the crowd. Heat ‘em up, cool ‘em off. Shit, what is she, fucking twenty-one? She moves around on stage like Ella Fitzgerald, except she’s a lot more fun to look at. You got a winner here, dude.”

          Tony pushed himself back from the remains of his crab cakes and waffle. He crossed his legs, wishing for a cigarette. No smoking in Mill Valley restaurants, not for a couple of years now. Yeah, he thought, and she’s the last chick I ever wanted to see walking through my door.

          “Well that’s great, Carlo, really great. So is that why you wanted to meet this morning?”

          “You’re damn right that’s why. I talked yesterday to the festival directors about next year. You’re going to be the headliners, the local stars. Now what we got to do, is get a CD finished and out by that time. That’s what I want to talk to you about. Can you get another bank loan for production? I can do it if you can’t. I’m ready to put money out for this one.”

          “No, that’s OK. I can do it, I think.”

          “Really? They just gave you a loan. We haven’t even started to pay them back for Tapestry.”

          “Yeah, well I think I can talk them into it.” He gave Carlo a broad smile. “They’re music lovers.”

          “Alright, then. You can do it today?”

          Tony nodded.

          “Fine. I’ll call you this afternoon. If everything is Jake, I’ll get started booking the studio. You have enough material ready with the chick for a whole disk?”

          Tony nodded again.

          “Next week OK to start?”

          “Make it after our next Fresno gig,” said Tony. “We won’t have to break in the middle. After the election.” He smiled. “Maybe Bush will push the dollar back up again, and we can fly to Paris, do it there.”

          “If the fucker gets reelected, yeah. But seriously, let’s get going as soon as possible. Alright?”

          “No problem. I’ll make the call today.”

          Carlo stood up, his stomach shaking the table as he did so.

          “I got to jet. Your turn for the check?”

          “I don’t remember,” said Tony, waving his hands. “But go on, I’ll get it.”

          He sat for a moment after Carlo left, thinking. The bitch did have a lot of talent, no denying that. And he did want to be a big star in the jazz world, that was true also. It would make it possible for him to spend some of all the fucking money he’d made, the past few years, instead of just stashing it away. But why did it have to be her? It was too damn close for comfort. Why couldn't she have told him who she was, when they had first talked, backstage? He could have come up with some fucking excuse to scrap the audition, not enough money, sticking with an instrumental sound, some bullshit like that. But it was too late now. He’d have to keep seeing Cyrus’ damn face every time he looked in her direction, that weird puzzled expression as he was falling away, and worrying about Carly shooting off her mouth, giving Serena ideas. Fuck.

          He paid the check and drove down Miller Avenue to the center of Mill Valley, parking just off the main square. He sat down on one of the benches there, watching some overage gen-X dickhead doing tricks on a skate board. Oh, well, he thought to himself, go with the flow, baby. He pulled out his cell phone and dialed the bank.

          “Hello,” said the friendly, artificial sounding female voice on the other end. “Wells Fargo. How can I help you?”

          “Peter Rodriquez, please.”

          “I’m sorry, sir, Mr. Rodriquez is no longer with us.”

          “What?”

          “Mr. Rodriquez no longer works here, sir. Can I help you in some way?

          Shit! “This is Mr. Exeter speaking. Mr. Rodriquez was handling my accounts there personally. How could he have left without even letting me know?”

          “Just a moment, Mr. Exeter.” The computerized background sounds of the bank were muffled briefly as she put her hand over the phone’s mouthpiece. “I’m sorry, Mr. Exeter. We apologize for the inconvenience. Mr. Rodriquez was killed yesterday in an auto accident.”

          “Jesus. What happened?”

          “The police said his car ran off the road on Highway One, near Devil’s Slide. Mr. Poindexter is handling your account now. Shall I connect you to him?”

          “Ah, no. No, I’ll call back later.”

          He switched off the phone. Great, he thought. Now he had to break in a new guy. Why does everything have to happen to me?

 

 

 

          Yaro and Sonny were sitting in a booth in the I-Hop on Nineteenth Avenue, ordering.

          “That’s all you want for lunch?” asked Yaro, “A banana split?”

          “I’ll probably get another one,” said Sonny. Then, to the waitress, “Oh yeah, and some onion rings on the side.”

          “Very good, sir,” said the waitress. “And what will you have, sir?”

          “I’ll take the fugu mousse and some chocolate covered snails,” said Yaro.

          “Pardon me, sir?” said the waitress.

          “Only kidding,” said Yaro. “A cup of coffee is all, thanks. I think I just lost my appetite.”

          The waitress gave him a shitty look and took off.

          “What’s the matter, Yaro?” said Sonny, smiling. “This place don’t have enough class for you?”

          “I never worry about class when I hang out with you, Sonny. It would be a waste of time.”

          “Man, you got a lip on you that doesn’t quit. But I got to admit, you have these fuckers snowed real good.”

          “You bring me here to stroke my ego?”

          “Fuck, no. You do enough of that by yourself. I brought you here to tell you I’m goin’ out of my fucking mind.”

          “Really? I thought a veteran like you could take it.”

          “Shit, Yaro, you don’t have to live with these dickheads. I get out every chance I get, but believe me, it ain’t enough. You’re probably tooling around in Derek’s Trans Am, picking up broads.”

          “Well, you’re half right, at least. The main thing is, will they be able to do the job.”

          “If any real shooting starts? The guy, Derek, he’s a real weirdo, but he catches on pretty fast, he’ll be OK. Teddy? I’m gonna load his gun with fuckin’ blanks, man. He’s liable to shoot us. The other two I don’t know about yet.”

          “Frank will probably be fine. He’s a gun nut in the first place. He’s probably been dreaming about being able to actually shoot somebody for years. Carter I’m going to keep behind a rifle.”

          “You got some kind of plan, boss man?”

          “I’ll put Carter at the surveillance window. He can put a couple of shots into the apartment just before we go in, silenced, but they’ll hear the glass breaking. The blinds will be closed, but it’s just a diversion. After we’re inside the only cover from the door will be by the window. Even if the blinds stay closed he can keep them out in the open. After we leave, if our boys get overpowered or lose control, he can take care of anyone following us out."

          Sonny sat for a minute looking at him, the hint of a smile on his face.

          “I got to admit, Yaro, you’re not an amateur, that’s clear. What did you do over in Prague, anyway, some kind of hit man?”

          “I was more on the organizational level. Let’s just say I had a difficult childhood.”

          They sat back while the waitress put on the banana split and coffee.

          “Your onion rings are coming right up, sir.”

          “Well,” said Sonny, digging into his banana split, “I guess we got that in common.” After a few more bites, he looked up and said “Maybe I should give Otto a call, see if he’s got the pictures ready.”

          “I called him this morning,” said Yaro, lying. “He says it’ll be a few more days.”

          “Christ,” said Sonny. The sound came out muffled, his mouth full of bananas and ice cream. “In ‘Nam he’d of had a real bomb finished by now.”

          Yaro put his coffee cup down, slowly.

          “In ‘Nam?”

          “Yeah,” said Sonny. He was almost through with the banana split. “Where the fuck are my onion rings?”

          “You knew Otto in Vietnam?”

          “Yeah. He was the armorer at Firebase Charlie.”

          The waitress arrived with the onion rings.

          “Give me another split, honey,” said Sonny. “But right away, OK? I don’t want the rings to get cold.”

          “Right away, sir.” She left without looking at Yaro. He took a deep breath, tried to sound casual.

          “I thought Otto was a German.”

          “He is, sort of. His parents immigrated right after he was born, spoke German at home. After Vietnam, he went over to Europe, liked it. He was over there for a long time, in Berlin. I don’t know why he came back. Didn’t want to talk about it. Probably shot somebody.”

          “You’re friends.”

          “Yeah, we’re friends. I thought you knew that.”

          “He said you weren’t.”

          “Oh, he did, huh? He talks like that, the fucking kraut asshole. Actually, we’re pretty tight. Been through some shit together, a couple times.”

          “But he hasn’t called you.”

          “Doesn’t have my number. Nobody does, ‘cept a couple of people who need it, like you. I’m kind ‘o nervous about telephones.”

          The waitress brought Sonny’s second banana split. Yaro sat silently for a minute, watching Sonny scoop up whipped cream with one of the onion rings.

          “Well, I have to get going, if there isn’t anything else you wanted to talk about. I can’t really do anything about you going out of your mind.”

          “Alright. But I’m telling you, I’m going to take a couple of nights off. There’s no reason for me to be there all the time. Let them wipe their own asses for a while. They’re not going to goof off. And who cares if they do? It’s all bullshit, anyway. In fact, why even go through with this break in, anyway? You got them fuckin’ convinced.”

          “We’ve gone to all the trouble of setting it up. We might as well do it. And I don’t want them having any second thoughts if they have to shoot somebody.”

          “OK,” said Sonny. “Whatever. But let’s do it soon.”

          “As soon as the bomb is ready – or, I mean, the pictures of the bomb.”

          “Otto said a couple ‘days?”

          “Yes.”

          “Maybe by Friday, then. I’ll give him a call, see if I can hurry his ass up.”

          Yaro pushed his chair back.

          “You might as well wait until tonight. He said something about going out this afternoon to look for some special parts.”

          “OK, tonight, then. Wait a minute, I’m leaving with you. These onion rings aren’t salty enough, anyway.”

          They said good-bye on the street. After he watched Sonny drive off, Yaro went to a pay phone and called Otto.

          “How’s the work coming?”

          “Finished,” said Otto. “Do you have my other thousand?”

          “Yes, I have it. Can I come by now?”

          “I’m here for another hour or so. Then I have to go out. Make it by two or later tonight.”

          “I’ll be there right away.”

          “Fine.”

          Yaro went to the car and headed back in the direction of the apartment. He didn’t have a lot of time, but the Trans Am wouldn’t do, not for what he had in mind now. He parked near the alley leading from fourteenth and walked the two blocks to where he’d put Teddy’s Nissan pickup. This was the day for street cleaning and he’d have to move it again later anyway. When he turned on the ignition, he noticed that it was almost out of gas. Shit, he thought, I’ll have to take the fucking Nova. The only other choice was Frank’s SUV, also too high profile. He took the pickup around the block, parked, and hurried back to fourteenth, where the Nova was sitting, a block down from the Trans Am. It made some clunking sounds as he started it up, a real piece of shit. On Nineteenth he made a left, passing the I-hop again. As he went through the big intersection near the Scottish Rite Temple he happened to see a car shoot around three others and run the light, just as it turned red. It was a blue Ford Granada, this time.

          He turned right at Ocean and headed for the beach, taking his time. The Granada was still behind him, a few cars back. At the beach he turned right again. So did the Granada. Along the coast road heading north he kept an even pace through the timed lights. The Granada stayed just far enough behind so that he couldn’t make out who was driving. Fucking assholes, he thought. Milan must have told them to not take any chances on his getting away. It had to be a recent development, though. He always drove on his trips between his apartment and the surveillance house, going several blocks before doubling back, and he had never seen this or any other suspicious cars. They must have watched the front entrance for a while, and after realizing he wasn’t using it, looked for him in back. They probably had just spotted him, changing cars. Hopefully, he had picked up the tail on their first attempt.

          He went into the park, drove until he got to the greenhouse, and stopped across the street. He could see the Granada pull over, a few hundred yards back. Confrontation was the only solution. He had to get over to the machine shop now. If Sonny got through to Otto first, he would have a lot of explaining to do, and he couldn’t take a chance on any fancy maneuvers losing his tail, not in a fucking Nova. Besides, if he got stopped by the police, he would miss his appointment.

          He got out of the car and started walking back towards the Granada. He was still too far away to see who was driving. After only a few feet, he heard the engine start, and broke into a run. The Granada pulled into the street, made a quick U-turn, and sped off in the other direction, still too far away for him to see the driver. He ran back to his car, took off quickly, and made the first right, towards Seal Stadium. He checked his watch. One forty-five. There was still time.