THE MAN WHO HUNTED HIMSELF Read online

  ‘Good evening, Natasha,’ I said, though it was past midnight. I didn’t stand. In my book hookers don’t merit the usual courtesies.

  She pulled out the sickly yellow-upholstered chair opposite mine, and made herself comfortable, complete with drink.

  ‘What’s yours?’

  ‘My name? James.’

  ‘I thought it might be. Have you been stood up?’

  ‘Ever? Often. But not tonight.’

  ‘I have.’ She gazed at me as she extracted a cigarette and lighter from the depths of her clutch bag. ‘Now I’m looking for a replacement.’

  She shouldn’t have to look far. Apart from being tall and shapely, she had dark brown hair in a tousled style, and an oval face with features that were more than merely pleasing.

  ‘Are you staying here?’ she asked.

  I nodded. ‘You?’

  ‘No. So I guess it’ll have to be your room, huh?’

  Approaches of this kind from women were unusual, so I still assumed she was a hooker.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘I’m not in the market for paid sex tonight.’

  If I had read her wrong, she could have taken offence. I had, as it turned out, but she didn’t. She laughed, a low throbbing sound that was incredibly sexy.

  ‘No, my friend, neither am I. This is Vegas and you just hit the jackpot tonight. You win me, as many fucks between now and breakfast as you can manage, and it won’t cost you a cent. Hell, if you like, I’ll even pay you!’

  Unusually, I wasn’t really in the mood. I was still jetlagged, and could have used a good night’s shuteye. Still, I was open to conversion. If I took her to my room, I wasn’t cheating on anyone, except maybe her date, supposing her stood-up story was true. But real or imaginary, he hadn’t shown, so he deserved whatever she dished out to him. My conscience need not trouble me.

  So I got to my feet, offered my arm.

  ‘This sort of thing doesn’t happen to me very often,’ I said.

  ‘That’s Vegas for you,’ she riposted, snuggling up beside me. Her perfume was intoxicating. Up close, she was just as fetching, though probably within a year or two of my own age. High time I quit messing around with teenagers anyway.

  ‘You mean this sort of thing goes on all the time?’ I said innocently, as we strolled toward the elevators, arms linked.

  ‘Yep. The place is full of emancipated women.’

  At her insistence, I used a condom. She even supplied it. Trojan brand, in a cute blue sachet.

  She was apologetic of sorts.

  ‘Any guy who looks like you gets to screw around too often for his own good,’ was her justification. ‘And mine.’

  So we got on with it, Trojan and all. Despite the boast about unlimited sex, she fell asleep after a single, admittedly energetic, session. That suited me to a T.

  I slept deeply, dreamed Marion was still alive and here with me in Las Vegas, a place we had never visited together. It was disturbingly vivid. I awoke while it was still in progress.

  ‘Ah, you’re awake.’ Having gone to bed with a woman, I was confused by the voice, which was without doubt male.

  The ceiling came into focus. I propped myself on my elbows.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Freeman.’ Same voice, still male. Its owner was occupying one of the two armchairs. The lights were on, though the sun was streaming through a crack in the drapes. So it was morning. Beside me Natasha was still asleep, not quite snoring, looking more her real age in the band of sunlight.

  ‘Who the fuck are you?’ I demanded of my uninvited guest. He had curly black hair, beetle brows, and eyes with long lashes that most women would go into raptures over. Some men too. I privately bet his body was covered in more hair than an ape.

  ‘The name Tosi ring any bells?’ he asked pleasantly. If it weren’t for the automatic with sound suppressor that he was pointing at me, I would have been pleased to meet him.

  ‘As it happens, yes. It came up in conversation last night.’

  ‘Is that so? Well, I’m one of Vittorio’s sons – Cesare Tosi.’

  Pity it wasn’t Silvano. Though Cesare might serve just as well.

  Natasha stirred, mumbled briefly, and turned onto her other side. One bare shoulder protruded above the sheet; her hair had regressed from tousled to tangled.

  ‘What brings you here? And why the gun?’

  ‘You might be dangerous.’ He smiled as he spoke. He was young; knowing the eldest sibling, Silvano, to be twenty-five, Cesare would be twenty-four at the most.

  ‘Do you mind if I get something on?’ I said.

  He gestured airily with the gun. I took that as a yes, and retrieved my underpants, which I had discarded within arm’s length of the bed. Being shy about exposing my body to other men, I wriggled into them under the sheet. Natasha stirred again at the commotion. Her eyes opened, alighted on me, closed again.

  ‘Is she the reason you’re here?’ I said to Cesare.

  ‘Natasha? Sure. She used to be my father’s girlfriend. After my mother died.’

  I abandoned the bed and tracked down my pants, draped across the other armchair. Cesare watched me, the gun held casually, but cocked and covering me.

  ‘Is she supposed to be still in mourning?’ I said, trying to make sense of the connection, and how it involved me.

  ‘Forget about her. She’s useful, that’s all. She likes to get laid, whenever and with whoever, so don’t kid yourself you’re hot stuff. We’re the ones interested in you.’

  With my pants on I felt better equipped to deal with him. Not yet though. I was more intrigued than worried. If he was going to kill me, he would have done it by now.

  I proposed coffee.

  ‘Later, maybe. For now I just want some answers.’ He shifted his position, crossed his legs. ‘And before you get any ideas about being brave, there are two more of us outside the door.’

  I might have guessed he wouldn’t come alone. I operated the remote to open the drapes. Sunlight flooded into the room, making Cesare shield his eyes. The sky was pure blue, with just a few rags of cumulus clinging to the distant hills to the north.

  ‘Why were you asking questions about my family?’ Cesare said, speaking to my back.

  ‘Your information is inaccurate,’ I said, turning. ‘Or I should say it’s incomplete. I was asking your friend Randazzo – I’m assuming he’s your friend, as you wouldn’t know about me unless he told you – what he could tell me about the killing of Jeff Heider.’

  ‘My question is still good.’

  ‘Your family’s name came up.’ I shrugged. ‘That’s it.’

  ‘That’s it?’ He sounded incredulous. ‘You’ll have to do better than that, Freeman. When a private eye comes sniffing around Tosi business, he better have a fucking good reason, or he’s going to be one sorry motherfucker. Get me?’

  He talked tough. Easy enough with a gun in your fist.

  ‘Ask Randazzo. I didn’t contact him to ask about you. I was looking for leads as to who killed Jeff Heider. It was Randazzo’s idea to contact you.’

  Impossible to say if he knew anything about my contract with his father. Silvano would recognise me, but that apart nothing connected me in my Freeman guise to the Heider job. If I wanted to stay unconnected, I had to stay away from Silvano, which depended on convincing Cesare I was not a threat.

  After a short silence, Cesare said, ‘You’re working for the Heiders, right?’

  ‘Yes.’ It was a logical conclusion, and I saw no advantage in keeping it quiet. Not as long as I was looking down the muzzle of that silencer.

  ‘We don’t like them. They killed our father.’

  ‘I’m surprised you let them get away with it.’

  He gave me a hard look, not liking the implication.

  ‘They’re a lot bigger than us, and well protected. We’re not looking to get into a shooting war. We’ll get them eventually.’ His gun hand trembled slightly as emotion intruded on his sang froid. ‘You’ll see, we’ll get the whole motherfucki
ng tribe, including that sexy little kid of his. After we’ve fucked her inside out.’

  The kid he was referring to was Carl’s daughter, Angie, I assumed.

  Then Natasha woke up. She rolled onto her back, stretched, yawned, and bade us both good morning. No surprise or outrage at the interloper.

  ‘Hi, Nat,’ Cesare said, his gaze still centred on me.

  ‘Hi, honey. You look gorgeous, as usual. Want to get in bed while it’s still warm?

  My eyebrows didn’t rise by more than an inch.

  ‘Do you dig this broad?’ Cesare chuckled. ‘Fifty-two and she’s gotten more stamina than both of us put together.’

  The fifty-two was a startler. I had her figured for about my age.

  ‘So where do we go from here?’ I asked.

  ‘From here? We go and talk to my brother, Silvano.’

  That was what worried me. Talking to Silvano would blow my cover as a private eye.

  ‘Suits me. Maybe he can give me some pointers.’

  My T-shirt lay on the floor. I slipped it on under the watchful gun muzzle. Natasha headed for the bathroom, not bothering to dress. She had a great body for her age and wasn’t ashamed to flaunt it. Cesare didn’t let it distract him.

  ‘Mind if I get a fresh shirt?’ I asked him. When he nodded his okay, I crossed the room to the wardrobe. A red helicopter with GRAND CANYON scrolled on its side buzzed past my window. Cesare wasn’t interested, he only had eyes for me.

  I took my time sorting out a shirt. As I was tucking it into my pants, the WC flushed in the bathroom and my naked guest emerged, hair tidied, saucy wiggle still intact. I held back until she passed between Cesare and me. The second she screened him, I made my move. I launched myself at her; she went over sideways squealing and landed in his lap with me in her immediate wake. Cesare had no chance to use his gun. He and the chair went over backwards, and the three of us went with it, all snarled up like a human tumbling tumbleweed. When we came to rest, I was on my back, on top of him with a faceful of bare buttock. It might have been pleasurable but for the third party presence making itself felt. Something hard was trapped between us, gouging the base of my spine.

  The combined weight of Natasha and me kept Cesare pinned to the floor and his gun immobilized between us. It couldn’t last. Natasha had to go, and go she did, without assistance from me. Kicking and flailing and cursing, she extracted herself from the confusion of bodies, leaving me to flop onto Cesare while preventing him from using the gun. Fortunately his strength was no match for mine. I was able to grab his wrist and smash the back of his hand on the floor. The carpet absorbed some of the impact, but it was enough to loosen his grip on the gun. I chopped his wrist with the edge of my other hand and finished the job. He threw a punch at me that was easy to deflect, then went after the gun, which was lying about a foot away. I beat him to it, my fingers closing around the silencer and launching it across the room. Now I had him pinned down with my body, my arm compressing his neck.

  At that he conceded defeat. The resistance went out of his body.

  ‘Fuck you,’ he snarled, but it was a feeble snarl.

  It would have been all over if Natasha hadn’t returned to the fray by flinging herself across me, crushing me onto Cesare, which was no help to him. I admired her pluck. I was now the filling in the sandwich. I shoved her away and punched her just below the ribs. This was enough to detach her a second time.

  Enough was enough. I leapt off Cesare, who, encouraged by Natasha’s determination, was showing signs of resurgence. The gun was lying between the bedside cabinet and the outside wall. Cesare had barely risen to his knees when I pounced on it. Now it was his turn to look down the black hole of the silenced muzzle.

  Natasha was propped up against the wall, clutching her stomach, her face pallid and sweaty. I hadn’t meant to hit her so hard.

  ‘We seem to be done here,’ I wheezed at Cesare, who was still on his knees. A rill of blood ran from one nostril, past his mouth, to his chin. Funny, I didn’t remember hitting him at all.

  ‘Better not shoot me,’ he said, when had worked up enough saliva to speak. The tough talker wasn’t so tough now.

  ‘I’m not going to shoot you, Cesare. Unless you give me a reason to.’

  A hammering came at the door.

  ‘Open up!’

  That would be one of the two heavies lurking in the corridor, worrying about the ruckus.

  ‘Get going,’ I shouted back. ‘I’ll give you two minutes. If you’re still around after that, your boss here gets a bullet in his leg.’

  Legs make useful targets. A bullet in the leg immobilises its owner.

  The heavies weren’t quite ready to do my bidding.

  ‘Hey, Cesare, you okay?’

  I aimed the Ruger at Cesare’s knee, leaving the threat unspoken.

  ‘Get the fuck outa here,’ he ordered. ‘Wait for me in the lobby.’

  ‘You sure?’ Good faithful servants, these two.

  ‘Yeah, I’m sure,’ he snarled. ‘For fuck’s sake, beat it!’

  It would have been safer to confirm their departure, but to open the door on two armed hoods, with two enemies to my rear, would be tactically unsound. Best to keep Cesare and Natasha where I could see them, in my sights.

  Cesare got to his feet, used the back of his hand to wipe blood from his chin.

  ‘I think I’ll hold on to your hardware,’ I said. ‘Stop you getting any ideas.’

  He just glowered. Face had been lost and he didn’t like it. Especially in front of a woman. I glanced down at the gun. It was a Ruger P345. Not a state of the art handgun, but it didn’t need to be. The “45” is the calibre of the bullet, which is as big as you can get in handguns. Makes a nice hole in human flesh and stops anything smaller than a rhino dead in its tracks.

  ‘Go back to The Biggest Little City in the World,’ I told Cesare, ‘and give your boss a message. It’s in two parts: first part, stay off my back. Second part, I am not interested in the Tosi operation.’

  ‘Like I’m supposed to believe that?’

  ‘Just believe the first part then. It’ll do.’

  ‘Fuck you, Jack.’

  He slunk off towards the door.

  ‘Hey, just a minute,’ I called after him.

  He paused and half-turned, sullen and resentful. ‘What?’

  I nodded towards the still slumped Natasha.

  ‘Take your garbage with you.’

  EIGHT

  Stirring up a hornet’s nest had not been part of my strategy. Nor was it useful. If Silvano Tosi finished up as my chosen fall guy I had just made a mistake by alerting him to my presence and my possible interest. Whether he would back off when his brother relayed my message, only the passage of time would tell.

  Today, Wednesday, was to be a day of inactivity professionally-speaking, apart from some brainwork planning my next moves. I took a stroll down the Strip, lunched at my namesake restaurant, André’s at the Monte Carlo. From their tasting menu, I chose pan-seared foie gras with wild mushroom risotto to follow. To rinse the tonsils, a half bottle of their Chateau Lafite. Their French cuisine is as good as you will find anywhere outside France itself. The irony is that the eating place next door is a McDonald’s.

  Being presented with Cesare’s Ruger had made it unnecessary for me to seek out an arms merchant. If he was the legal owner he could in theory report its loss to the police. As a leading member of a notorious gang, his running to the law would open a can of all sorts of worms. If the gun was illegally acquired, as was likely, it was as good as untraceable and would serve me well if I had to make use of it. The single drawback was the lack of ammunition. The magazine contained eight rounds, not many by today’s standards, but that was only a minor bummer. It was the lack of a back-up magazine that gave me cause for concern. I wasn’t figuring on getting into a shoot-out with either side of the law, but that didn’t mean I shouldn’t be prepared for it.

  So I killed the afternoon looking for a place to buy a sp
are mag. Firearms being regulated in Nevada state, I couldn’t just walk in and make an off-shelf purchase. Sporting a pair of Rayban sunglasses, a brown stick-on moustache that I kept secreted away in my soap bag, and a Las Vegas 51s baseball cap, I walked into the Shooters gun shop on Arville Street.

  The guy behind the counter was grey of ponytail mane, brown of beard, and sporting a T-shirt with a Shooters logo – crossed Colt sixguns, Buffalo Bill style

  ‘How can I help you?’ he enquired, in a Confederate accent.

  ‘A magazine for a Ruger P345.’

  Disappointment showed in the downturn of his rather thick lips. Maybe he had me tagged for a big spender.

  ‘That all?’

  ‘Fifty rounds forty-five Colt ACP to go with it.’

  Still no upturn from the lips.

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘Yeah, sorry, pal. No machine guns and grenade launchers today.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’ Unamused by my foray into humour, he went away into the back of the store. Sounds of drawers opening, and rummaging. He returned with a small brown box, about the size of two cigarette packets end-to-end, and another squarer box, that I recognized as ammunition.

  ‘Let’s see your permit.’

  I did a fast audit of the store. It was empty of other clients and witnesses. I took out my wallet, extracted three century bills.

  ‘There you are.’ I fanned the bills on the counter.

  He took a long look at them and an even longer look at me. Laid the packages on the counter, made the bills vanish, and went away again to the back of the store. I went in the opposite direction, packages and all, out into the sunlit street.

  Easy when you know the combination that unlocks all doors.

  Leaving the gun and its accessories in the hotel room safe, I sortied into the darkened streets, dressed to kill in my cashmere Armani suit, and took a cab to the Pieces of Eight. Perhaps Mrs Heider or Ms Beck would give me a discount off my meal. I could always ask.

  The second restaurant was circular, with tables to match, and an open kitchen at its axis. To go by the numbers eating there, it was popular. They found me a table for two in a quiet corner, where, after ordering clam chowder to be followed by barbecued pork ribs, with a bottle of Californian Pride Mountain claret for accompaniment, I amused myself watching the other diners. As entertainment goes, the pickings were sparse.