Trouble & Strife Page 14

  No, better to find out where the hell those two backstabbers were hiding and take care of business without his involvement.

  Nikki asked a few more questions, but I didn’t answer, focusing on what could happen in the next few hours. She understood and turned up the volume, Charlie Parker blaring a solo on his saxophone.

  She dropped me off two blocks from my condo. I peered in through the passenger window.

  “How can I find you to repay this kindness?”

  She pulled out a pen and scrap of paper from her purse, scribbled her phone number, folded it, and handed it to me.

  “If you really want to repay me, I hope it comes with a full dinner.”

  “You like steak?”

  “Prime rib, rare.”

  I nodded and walked away. Listening to the Bug putter away, I changed directions and walked to my unit. Located on the third floor, it has an unobstructed view of the ocean. A neighbor did a double take as I walked through the lobby. Punching the elevator call button, I saw myself in the mirror. I looked like a gray-haired Tarzan who swam in the ocean during Navy target practice.

  Stepping off the elevator, I walked to my door and stopped, hearing voices inside. Knox and Jennifer. I couldn’t believe the ultra-cautious Knox would have the balls to come back to my pad after he tried to kill me. In my mind, after he shot up the creek, hoping to tag me with more lead, he would have made sure the rest of the crew was dead, collected the jewels, and hid out someplace random or set an ambush in Inglewood.

  I turned the knob, surprised to find it unlocked. Easing the door open, I saw Knox with his back towards me, talking to the bedroom. Buttoning up his shirt. Hair askew. Post-coital. I understood Knox’s missteps now. His mind had been muddled by Jennifer’s seduction. I understood. She duped me too.

  My eyes scanned the living room for any weapon. Seeing none, I crept toward the kitchen for a carving knife while listening to their conversation.

  “You sure you can’t move the time up with your fence?” Jennifer asked. “Maybe just ask?”

  “Impossible. And stop asking. We don’t need to spook Bresson any more than necessary.”

  “Oh, honey, I’m sorry. I just want us to get the money and fly down to Panama as fast as possible. I can’t help it.”

  Knox shook his head, running his hands through his hair. Jennifer walked up to him wearing my silk robe. She planted a heavy kiss on him. I ducked behind the island in the kitchen. The butcher block stood against the far wall. Ten feet away. If I were healthier, I would’ve bum rushed them.

  “Did you hear something?” Knox asked.

  “No. What? You’re so paranoid, Knox. Should we go for another round? I thought the first two times would’ve calmed your nerves.”

  “We shouldn’t be here. When the police discover his body, they’ll come here.”

  “Why? He has no ID. He had plastic surgery on his face. His fingerprints were altered. It’ll take weeks before he’s identified…and that’s if they find the body which is probably a shark’s lunch right now.”

  Knox pulled away, walking into the kitchen. I crawled around to the opposite end of the island. Dammit. So close.

  Jennifer followed him. I watched their reflections from the glass on the microwave oven.

  “Look, I know you’re upset at what you did to him and your crew. But it’s for the best. We’ll never have to work another day in our lives.”

  “What if he isn’t dead, Jennifer?”

  “Impossible. I shot him. You shot him. There was all that blood…”

  Considering the next weapon of choice, it would either be a bottle of wine on the counter above my head or the cast iron pan next to the uneaten ingredients for the scramble that never happened. And thinking about the breakfast caused my stomach to growl like a grizzly ripping up a campsite.

  “What’s that?” Knox said.

  Jumping to my feet, I grabbed the cast iron pan and swung it at Knox’s head. He got his left arm up in time for me to smash it. Bone crunched along with a deep iron thud. My protégé fell to the floor, howling in pain. I raised the pan over my head with my good arm. Ready to scramble Knox’s brains. From my periphery, I saw Jennifer bring a pistol out of my robe pocket. I dove as a bullet slammed into the cabinet. Holding the pan out like a shield, I ran across the living room to the balcony. Two bullets dinged off the cast iron. I leaped over the side.

  Falling three floors, I landed on the manicured hedges. Jennifer peered over the balcony. Her face twisted in rage. I winked and blew her a kiss. She took angry, wild shots as I limped away.

  On my way to the ocean, I grabbed a wetsuit that a surfer had left out to dry on his fence. My shoulder howled in pain, but the suit fit fine and altered how people appraised me. An older surfer dude instead of a bleeding nutjob in his skivvies. A hat would help one step further, but you work with what you’ve got.

  Hearing sirens wail in the distance I walked along the beach with my toes biting in the rough sand. Although the weather had turned cold and gloomy, it didn’t stop the surfers from catching waves. I spotted towels and a bag here and there from where surfers left them behind. A few would have a car key buried nearby, but most probably carried their keys in their wetsuits. I could only be wrong a couple of times before I’d have to fight off a tribe of pissed off surfers, and I needed to preserve my energy for two other people.

  I walked over to the Manhattan Beach Pier parking lot and scoped out cars and trucks that seemed like a surfer would own, yet modern enough to require a bulky electronic key that would feel uncomfortable to wear on the waves. I settled on a Toyota Tacoma with several surfing bumper stickers. Quickly finding the magnetic key box by the front bumper, I hit the road.

  The truck had everything I wanted. A wallet with cash and credit cards, dry clothes, and yes, a first aid kit. After I patched up and put on jeans and a California Republic T-shirt, I headed over to a pawnshop in Culver City.

  When I walked inside, the owner, Jackie Krueger, did a double take.

  “Holy shit, I never thought I’d ever see you wearing a T-shirt and flip-flops. What happened?”

  “Business deal gone bad. I want to see if I can get some credit.”

  She crossed her arms, and gave me a disapproving look. I’d known Jackie for years. Technically she sells jewelry and loans money, but most of her revenue comes from dealing firearms under the table. She’s one tough woman you’d never want to double-cross. And she’s unshakable about her rules.

  “You know I can’t do that. Cash or nothing. That even includes you.”

  I nodded. The surfer only had sixty dollars in his wallet. I sighed. Not enough for a gun.

  “Look now,” Jackie said, her eyes growing softer. “If you want to pawn that Omega on your wrist, I’m sure we could work something out.”

  I’d owned that SeaMaster for decades. The only item I never gave up throughout my various identity reincarnations. But considering the facts that I should be dead and I needed to get not only revenge but enough money to start over again, she was offering me a bargain I couldn’t refuse.

  Taking off the watch, she looked at it and then me.

  “Don’t worry. I won’t sell it…at least for a few months.”

  She went into the back and came back with a shoebox. Inside was a Glock 17 with an extra clip and ammunition.

  “Can you throw in a burner too?”

  She grabbed a disposable phone from the wall. I nodded my thanks and walked out the door.

  Armed, I drove to the safe house in Inglewood. I drove around the block three times, trying to find anything unusual. Nothing. Walking in through the back, I found the money, the IDs, and the guns were all gone. Even the canned food and energy bars were gone. Knox had cleaned me out. Everything except for a suit I found hanging up in a spare bedroom closet, still wrapped in plastic. Mine. Tailored to my exact measurements. Putting it on with a crisp white shirt and black tie, I felt like my old self. Stood tall.
Shoulders back. Injuries be dammed.

  I had no idea where my betrayers went, so I drove to the rendezvous place on La Cienaga Blvd, two hours before the appointed time. A hipster bar called the Mandrake. We changed locations every time. Only Knox and I knew the location that Bresson chose a couple of days before.

  I sat in the back at a booth away from the bar. They don’t serve food here, of course. But they have Scotch. I sipped a smoky Ardbeg Uigeadail. Pistol on my lap. Waiting, while hipsters with tattoos and Chuck Taylors shouted over the blaring music.

  And that’s where I’m at now. Two Scotches down, pain easing, while thinking about the revenge and the victory steak dinner with Nikki. Bresson should be here any minute.

  I hear two muted cracking noises from somewhere. The bar door swings open and a girl with oversized red plastic glasses rushes inside.

  “Oh my god, somebody call an ambulance. Two men have just been shot.”

  I’m on my feet rushing to the door. Outside in the cool moist air, both Knox and Bresson lie on the sidewalk, twisting in agony under a streetlamp. Puddles of blood pool underneath them. A black Lexus squeals away from the curb, flying through a red light. Jennifer’s behind the wheel.

  I squat next to Bresson.

  “What happened?”

  He looks up at me, squinting in pain. “Knox walked up to me as I was entering the bar…called my name…I looked at him. A woman shot him from behind. Then she shot me…took the money and his jewels.”

  My brain tries to comprehend this. She has not only the money but the jewels too.

  “Who else could fence the jewels?”

  He shakes his head feebly, life draining away by the seconds. “Nobody…they were one of a kind…Russian…Romanov crown jewels…black market only.”

  Things start to piece together now.

  “Who is the seller?’

  “Pah…” he grunts. His eyes glaze over. Curtains for the fence.

  Jennifer, or whatever her real name is, has been a plant. Not working independently. I start to run to the truck, but Knox reaches out his bloody hand. He grabs my pant leg. Looking up at me, his face unnaturally pale and eyes glistening.

  “I’m sorry. So sorry—”

  I kick my leg free and glare all the contempt I can muster. He shutters into a death rattle cough. I’m in the truck, heading to the 10 freeway. I’m hoping I’m not too late.

  Fifteen minutes later I’m at the Santa Monica Airport again. A black Lexus double-parked by the entrance. I run up the stairs to the second-floor outdoor viewing area. A pilot inspects a Citation jet as if readying the plane for takeoff. It’s a violation to land or take off in a jet plane at this airport in the evening. But wealthy people pay fines as a privilege to break the law for convenience. I lower myself down the railing. Those wounds burn. Using pain to boost my stride, I walk over to the jet. Glock’s in my hand. The pilot sees me at the last moment.

  “Hey, buddy.”

  I bash him over the head with the pistol butt and step inside the jet. Jennifer sits in a chair with her back to me. In three quick steps I’m behind her. Before I can say anything, she slumps over. Dead. Strangled from behind.

  “Bravo,” a thick accented voice says behind me.

  I turn my head to see a pale, lanky man emerging from the cockpit. Pytr Popov. A slime ball in the Russian underworld. He points a pistol at me.

  “You used her like she used me,” I say.

  “But I killed her when she did not kill you. Drop the gun.”

  My pistol falls with a thud. In an instant I understand the Russian’s entire plan.

  “You sold those jewels to a black-market collector this morning, here in the airport after your plane landed.”

  “Yes.”

  “Then we stole them from the new owner, and you had Jennifer steal them back along with our payoff money.”

  Popov beams with pride. “Why not take two things instead of one. It’s what makes me successful.”

  “You really think you can sell those jewels again?”

  “Sure I can. I have to wait awhile, true. But I come up with a plausible story of how they came back to me. I might even sell them to the same buyer. Besides nobody breathing knows my scheme except for you and me. And that’s one person too many.”

  “I suppose you counted all the jewels,” I say casually, not showing an ounce of fear.

  “What do you mean?” His head cocks in curiosity.

  “There was a scuffle when Knox double-crossed me. The stones hit the floor and I grabbed a few.”

  Popov scrunches his face. “I’ll take them off your corpse.”

  “They’re not on me.”

  “You lie.”

  “How can you be certain?”

  Popov switches the pistol to his left hand, reaches under the bar, and pulls out the attaché from a drawer. Without looking, he takes out the velvet bag. I see a briefcase—probably Bresson’s payment—in the drawer.

  “There should be forty-four jewels,” he says. “Any less and maybe you might live. Back up two steps.”

  I take two half steps. He dumps the jewels on the pullout table next to Jennifer. The stones dazzle in the overhead light. Popov’s mesmerized eyes widen for the second I need. With one long step, I kick the table. Priceless jewels fly in the air. Grabbing Popov’s gun hand, I head butt him in the nose. He drops the pistol. I pick it up and blast five shots into him. One for each of my crew and one more for Bresson.

  I scoop up a dozen jewels and grab the briefcase. Seconds later, I’m sprinting from the tarmac. I drive to Venice Boulevard, wipe down the Tacoma, and boost an old Volvo. I pull out the number I’ve been keeping in my skivves.

  “Hello,” Nikki answers.

  “It’s me.”

  “The guy named John?”

  “Right now you can call me Starvin’ Marvin.”

  “Like fuckin’ Lee Marvin.”

  “Exactly.” Holy shit. This woman knows that cockney reference. She’s a keeper. “I hope you’re ready to eat a big steak. Wear something nice. I’m taking you to Lowry’s Prime Rib.”

  “I can’t wait.”

  Today might not be so bad after all.

  Back to TOC

  Trouble and Strife

  Inspired by the Rhyming Slang for Wife

  Colin Campbell

  “Back in Yorkshire we just call it a string vest.”

  “You’re not in Yorkshire, you’re in L.A.”

  Jim Grant snorted a laugh. “Yeah. Where nothing is what it seems.”

  The man he was talking to in a bar just off Hollywood Boulevard swiveled on his barstool and gave him a sideways glance. “Meaning?”

  Grant kept his tone light. “Well, take you for instance. In America a sleeveless vest is a wife beater.” His eyes hardened. “But you don’t look anything like a string vest.”

  Jim Grant was in Los Angeles looking up his old friend Chuck Tanburro. The ex-cop turned technical advisor had been working constantly since retiring from the LAPD, putting actors through their paces and ensuring that police procedures were adhered to in TV shows and movies. Of course, this being Hollywood, if the story needed to bend the rules then police procedures went right out the window. A bit like being a cop, only without getting shot at.

  Grant was down from Boston, where the Yorkshireman had settled in with the Boston Police Department after the incident at Jamaica Plain, and was catching up with Tanburro after the trouble at Montecito Heights. Some people reckoned Grant brought a shitload of bad luck wherever he went while the press reveled in calling him The Resurrection Man, a name Grant detested.

  “When are they going to get tired of calling me that?”

  Tanburro leaned on an arc lamp at the edge of the movie set on Wilshire Boulevard just behind MacArthur Park. “When you stop getting into shit that keeps making the news.”

  “It’s not the shit, it’s the fact they’re always filming it.”

&n
bsp; “So, keep a low profile.”

  Grant gave Tanburro a withering look. “You used to be a cop. Since when did catching villains keep a low profile?”

  “Villains?”

  “Thieves. Bad guys. Shitbags. Whatever you call them in L.A.”

  Tanburro wrinkled his nose. “You English are so quaint.”

  The clear blue sky and baking sun was anything but English.

  “Our sayings or our accent?”

  “Both.”

  Grant waved towards the makeup trailer parked next to the duck pond. “I’m not the one with a main actor basing his character on Cockney rhyming slang.”

  Tanburro followed Grant’s gaze. “You heard about that huh?”

  “I thought Hollywood had learned its lesson after Dick Van Dyke.”

  Tanburro shrugged. “Circle of life. Those who don’t learn from history are destined to repeat it.”

  Grant nodded at the Westlake Theatre sign across the park. “Is that why they always film facing that way?”

  Tanburro indicated the MacArthur Park Lake. “You can film a duck pond anywhere. There’s only one Westlake Theatre. Even if it is a Swap Meet now.”

  The makeup trailer door opened and a muscle-bound hunk came down the steps followed by a fragile looking woman with big hair. The hunk flexed his shoulders and popped his biceps just in case anyone was looking. The woman kept her face down and stood behind him.

  Tanburro let out a sigh. “Here he comes.”

  Grant was concentrating on the woman. Anyone that beautiful must have a good reason for keeping her face turned down. When they crossed the park he saw why. No amount of Hollywood makeup could hide a swollen eye or the vicious bruise down one side of her face. Even so she stayed close to the man she was obviously afraid of, twitching at every sudden movement. Tanburro noticed what Grant was looking at.

  “That’s his wife.”

  “But she won’t make a complaint, right?”

  “Right. He’s gone full cockney. Calls her his Trouble and Strife.”