Vegas Vengeance (4 page)

“You killed him?”

“Indirectly. He pulled a gun on me.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“It means your buddy committed suicide. By proxy.”

The man's hand shook as he wiped the blood from his face. “Hey, you're not going to kill me, are you? I'm hurt. Hurt bad. My legs are pinned under this damn steering wheel, and I think they're broke. Both of 'em.”

“You expect me to feel sorry for you?”

The man reached one hand out toward Hawker, pleading. “Look, buddy, it was nothing personal. We get paid to carry out orders. You were nothing but a job. No sense in getting personal about it.”

“Who gave you the orders?”

“Hell, buddy, I can't tell you that!”

Hawker bounced the Walther in his hand. “You don't have much choice—
buddy.”

The man strained to pull himself from beneath the steering wheel and grimaced with pain. He wiped more blood from his face, then looked at Hawker. “Okay, okay, I'll talk. But first you got to get me out of here. This hurts too bad. I can't even think straight.”

“You can think straight enough for what I need to know. First you talk. Then I get you out.”

“You bastard!” the man snarled. “I might be bleeding to death!”

“All the more reason to hurry, friend.”

The man nodded quickly. “Okay, I'll tell you what I know. But it isn't much, honest to god. Christ, if they ever found out I talked, they'd—they'd—”

“They'd do just what I plan to do if you don't talk,” Hawker cut in. “With them, at least you have a chance. Tell them you had a wreck chasing me. Tell them I got away. No way they can find out you talked. Your buddy sure as hell isn't going to tell them.”

The worry on the man's face wasn't contrived. “You don't know those animals. Hell, I'd rather have a bullet through the brain than what they'd do to me.”

Hawker lifted the automatic. “I'll be happy to oblige if that's what you want.”

The man held his palms toward him. “Not so quick, for Christ's sake. I told you I'd talk. What do you want to know?”

“Your name, for starters.”

“Vendelli. Frank Vendelli.”

“See? We're off to a good start. Who hired you, Vendelli?”

“I don't know.”

Hawker pointed the automatic at him.

“I
don't
know, goddamn it! Not really. I got a rep with some of the organizations that have holdings in Vegas, see? Sometimes these organizations have a problem with an organization member. Or they need some employee convinced that stealing isn't such a wise thing to do. Or maybe some out-of-town reporter comes snooping around, digging where he shouldn't ought to dig. Then they get in touch with me. There's no person-to-person contact. Just a phone call. They tell me who to hit, where I can find them and how heavy I should come down. I give them a location to drop the money. Hell, it could be any one of two dozen syndicates—or maybe an outside company, for all I know. Like I said, there's no personal contact. I work alone on my rep. I hire my own muscle—like Louie there.”

“You said these people were animals. How do you know that if you don't know what organization you're working for?”

“Because of the way the guy on the phone told me to hit you.”

“He told you my name? He told you where you could find me?”

“Yeah. He called a couple of hours ago. Said you'd be driving out this way.”

“Did you recognize the voice? Had you ever heard it before?”

“No. Never. I'd remember, 'cause he had some kind of accent.”

“What kind of accent?”

“How in the hell should I know? He wasn't from the Bronx. That's all I can tell you.”

“Did he say what kind of car I'd be driving?”

“No. Just described you. Reddish brown–haired man traveling alone. Said I was to hit you just as hard as I could. Make it last. He said he wanted them to find you in pieces. Small pieces. Said he wanted to make an example of you.”

“Did the same voice on the phone hire you to kill Jason Stratton?”

“Who?”

“A guy who lived in a cabin back down the mountain.”

“I don't know nothing about that. But I'm not the only contract man in Vegas. There's not that much business anymore, but there's still a couple of others who like to keep their hands in.”

“Fraternal organization of hired murderers, huh? Do you guys hold meetings and do charity work, too? Maybe show color slides at your get-togethers?”

“Hey, I wasn't going to slice you up,” Vendelli said quickly. “Hell, that kind of shit left Vegas when Bugsy Siegel's partners from the Flamingo Hotel blew his brains out back in 1946. That crazy Jew liked to have his enemies cut up. Liked to send their families pieces of the body in the mail. Sure, I was going to hit you hard, buddy. My rep is built on successful contracts. But I was going to make it fast and clean. Hell, you wouldn't have felt a thing—if we'd caught you.”

“I'm touched,” said Hawker. “You're a real human being.”

“I got my principles. I'm no geek. With me, it's a business.” The man squirmed uncomfortably beneath the twisted steering wheel. “How about it, huh? I talked. Now get me the hell out of here.”

Hawker nodded. “I'll get a crowbar from my car and see what I can do. I'd hate to see Las Vegas lose one of its most enterprising businessmen. But first, reach into the backseat and throw that rifle out the window.”

Vendelli turned painfully and tossed the rifle away. “There. Now get me the hell out!”

Hawker went back to the Jaguar and opened the trunk. It took him a few minutes to find what he was looking for. The Jag had the complicated English jacking system, and the “crowbar” was little more than an L-shaped steel rod.

It would have to do.

Hawker shut the trunk and turned.

Facing him was Frank Vendelli.

The story about being trapped beneath the steering wheel had been a tale contrived to extend his life, to give him time. And James Hawker had fallen for it.

Hawker swore softly. While he was getting the jack, he had holstered the Walther.

Now he stood unarmed before the man who had been hired to kill him.

Vendelli leaned heavily against the wreckage of the Datsun. At least one of his legs was broken. Hawker wondered how he had gotten out of the wreck so quietly. Crawled through the window, he guessed.

In Vendelli's right hand was a .45-caliber ACP. Slowly he raised it toward Hawker.

As he did, Vendelli gave him a look of contempt. “You got no reason to sneer at me, buddy. Sure, I'm a hired killer. But what are you? A cop, that's my guess. Maybe a federal cop. No, my connection on the phone didn't say anything about it. But you got that look about you. You handle yourself too well; you touch all the bases. A fed cop with a lot of experience, that's my guess. I've seen your kind before. CIA, maybe. One of those internal dudes who run deep cover. That's so you can kill and not have the heat come back on the feds if you get caught.” He slung away more blood and sneered. “We both kill for dough, buddy. The only difference is, the organization you work for has more weight to toss around. But this time, my team wins.”

Hawker had gauged the distance between them. Fifty feet, maybe. Less than the distance between home plate and the pitcher's mound. Even so, he needed to get closer if he was to have a chance. He knew he had to get Vendelli to keep talking if he was to succeed. But Vendelli was a pro. Killing people was his business.

It wouldn't be easy.

Hawker could only hope that the shock of the accident and the loss of blood had made him sloppy.

“You're wrong about my being a cop, Vendelli,” Hawker said, walking forward as he spoke. “The people who own the Five-Cs complex brought me in. Someone is trying to force them out, and they want to find out why. That's why I'm here.”

Vendelli shrugged. “Private investigator, cop—all the same thing. It makes no difference to me, buddy. I get paid the same no matter what you do.”

“How much are they paying you, Vendelli? Whatever it is, the guys at the Five-Cs will pay you more. They want to nail the bastards who are strongarming them.”

The killer shook his head. “No deal. I've got a reputation, remember. That means I don't change horses. If I accept a job, I complete the job.” He wiped more blood from his face and drew back the hammer of the .45 automatic. “So this is the end of the line for you, buddy. You're good, but you gave me an opening. And one opening is all Frank Vendelli needs.” He leveled the gun. “Have a nice trip—to hell.…”

In one smooth motion, Hawker threw the jack handle as hard as he could while diving forward.

There was the explosion of a gunshot as Hawker somersaulted and came to his feet, the Walther PPK drawn.

He did not need it.

Hawker had played two seasons of pro ball; played for the Detroit organization in Lakeland, Florida, before being released because of a common baseball malady: an inability to hit the curve ball.

But he had always had an arm like a cannon.

The jack handle had hit Vendelli nose-high. The sharp end of the steel rod had gouged a furrow along his nose as if seeking a softer point of entry.

It had found it.

The jack handle had buried itself in the socket of the man's right eye, skewering through to the brain.

Frank Vendelli lay unmoving on the ground, dead.

Without pulling the jack handle free, Hawker wiped his prints clean. Then he laboriously dragged both corpses to the car and positioned them in the wrecked 280Z.

He hated to lose the Walther, but he had no choice. Besides, he had a duplicate back in the armament crates in his suite in Vegas.

He wiped his prints off the automatic, then placed it in Vendelli's right hand. He took both the .45 ACP and the .38.

As an afterthought, Hawker went through the billfolds of both men. Between them, they had two thousand dollars in cash.

Hawker left them with enough money so it would not look as if they had been robbed, then climbed back into the Jag.

It took him nearly a half-hour to find the old man who had been herding the sheep.

The old man was in the high pasture above the mountain road, patting down a mound of earth with a shovel.

There were tears in his eyes.

When Hawker pushed the wad of bills into his hand, he dropped the money on the ground and turned away.

“I lived with that old dog twelve years,” the old man said in a choked voice, “and your money don't mean a goddamn thing to me. Just go on back to Vegas with the other hot-rod hotshots. You bastards have done nothing but screw up this state since you started coming here.”

With no argument to offer in his favor, Hawker walked wordlessly to the Jaguar and drove back down the mountain to Jason Stratton's cabin.

five

Jason Stratton's cabin looked more like a hermitage than a home.

It was built beneath trees on a bluff that overlooked a lonely gorge.

Stratton had used logs from the property, hand-chinked and mortared with homemade adobe. The roof was low, shingled with natural shakes. There were two cane-bottom chairs on the porch, and a hand pump for water outside.

The Nevada wind and sun had weathered the cabin nicely. It looked silver beneath the cool green of the trees.

Far beyond the rocky gorge was the smog stain of Las Vegas.

The porch creaked beneath Hawker's weight, and the plank door swung open at his touch.

What he saw inside surprised him.

A girl who couldn't have been more than twenty-four or twenty-five sat cross-legged on the bed. She had very long white-blond hair. She was gazing through the window at the gorge outside.

She also happened to be completely naked.

The girl turned when Hawker came in. But she didn't seem to be surprised, or uncomfortable at being naked. There was no hasty retreat, no anxious covering of her privates.

Instead, she smiled at him. “Hello,” she said. “Are you looking for Jason?”

She had a bright, girlish face and very fair skin. The mouth was a little small for the plumpness of her lips. It gave her a poutish look. Her breasts were small, shaped like champagne glasses, and her nipples were pale pink. Hawker noted that the hair beneath her arms was only slightly darker than the hair on her head and the spun-glass triangle between her thighs.

“Am I looking for Jason?” Hawker repeated, realizing it had been long seconds since she had asked the question. “In a way. But I had no idea you were in here. I'm sorry. I should have knocked.”

The girl continued to smile as she looked carefully at Hawker. “You're not a friend of Jason's, are you?”

“No. I've never met him. But how did you know?”

She shrugged and turned once again to the window. “I've never seen you around before. And you don't seem the type.”

“Oh? And what type is that?”

The girl laughed. “You know. Your suit and tie. And driving up here in a fancy sports car.”

“You saw me drive up?”

“No, but I heard the mufflers and I knew it was either a big motorcycle or a sports car. And you're not dusty enough to have been on a bike.”

“Elementary, huh, Watson?”

The girl flopped around on the bed, grinning at him. “Hey, are you a Sherlock Holmes fan? I got on a real Holmes kick about a year ago. Read all fifty-six short stories and all three novellas.”

“Four novellas,” Hawker corrected.

“You
are
a Sherlockian.” She slid off the bed and held out her hand. “I'm Wendy Nierson.”

Hawker introduced himself and took her hand, doing his best to look her in the eye.

For the first time, she seemed to remember that she had no clothes on. “Say, does it bother you, my being naked? I'm so used to it, I forget that it can make other people uptight.”