Читать книгу Payback - Don Pendleton - Страница 11

CHAPTER FOUR

Bolan watched as the mountainous terrain of the dry Arizona landscape became gradually bisected with ribbons of highway that intersected with small clusters of buildings and finally with larger towns and cities. As they neared Tucson, the expanse of buildings and civilization grew denser, but Bolan wondered what it had looked like back in the day, when the first settlers edged westward, facing the adversity of the savage land. The tops of some of the mountains, he noticed, were blackened from the summer’s wildfires. He’d spent more years than he cared to remember putting out wildfires of a different type.

Grimaldi banked the plane and began calling the airport to report their approach. When they’d been cleared for landing he swiveled toward Bolan, who sat in the copilot’s seat, and grinned.

“See? Aren’t you glad we waited until morning before we took off?” he asked.

Bolan said nothing as he watched the ground gradually getting closer and closer.

Grimaldi spoke again to the control tower and slowed the Learjet’s descent a bit more.

They were at perhaps five hundred feet now, going over a shopping center and a ball field. When they touched down about thirty seconds later it was as easy as a limousine making a lane change on a freeway.

“And how’s that for the epitome of smoothness?” he asked.

“Careful,” Bolan said. “Don’t strain your arm patting yourself on the back.”

Grimaldi snorted a laugh as he radioed for instructions on proceeding to the appropriate location. Then he turned to Bolan as he steered the plane. “Well, at least I got you to talk. You hardly said two words during the whole trip.”

“I was just thinking how screwed up things have gotten with this one already.”

“That isn’t our fault.”

“No, but it means we’ve inherited a can of worms, as the saying goes.”

Grimaldi taxied the jet toward the section of private aircraft hangers. A man wearing a vest with brightly colored orange stripes directed them to proceed to the right, where an open hangar awaited.

“So what’s our first move?” Grimaldi asked. “After we secure this baby and our gear, of course.”

Bolan had been thinking about how to proceed, and there seemed to be only one course open to them at the moment. “We’re going to see a couple guys about a chopper.”

“Hot damn,” Grimaldi said. “One of my favorite things to do.”

* * *

RIGELLO TRANSPORT AND TOURS was on the edge of town in what appeared to be an unincorporated part of the county, about half a mile beyond the city limits sign for South Tucson. The business itself had a dirt parking lot that gradually gave way to an expanse of asphalt and a long driveway. Three brick buildings with tinted windows were adjacent to the paved lot, and beyond that Bolan could see an extensive area holding neat rows of dilapidated aircraft, trucks, cars and motorcycles.

As they drove by, Bolan noticed a large metallic sign on the front that read Rigello Transport & Tours. By Appointment Only. The big junkyard out back was surrounded by a seven-foot-high cyclone fence topped with three strands of barbed wire, and an additional hand-painted sign on the front gates said, To Hell with the Dog. Beware of the Owneres.

“Obviously, we’re about to come into contact with a couple of real Rhodes Scholars,” Grimaldi said, looking at the misspelling through the passenger window.

He and Bolan had rented a black Escalade with tinted windows, and the air-conditioning was going full blast as the dark SUV sat idling in the late afternoon heat. They’d also opted to wear dark suits, white shirts, ties and sunglasses to fit the role of federal agents.

“We look like refuges from a Men in Black movie,” Grimaldi said.

Bolan was studying the layout, figuring where the points of entry and egress were, estimating the approximate locations of the bathrooms by the vent pipes on the roof, and trying to get a feel for the place. He also was watchful for any human activities, but there were none visible.

“Not really a hotbed of commercial activity, is it?” Grimaldi asked, leaning back in the passenger seat. He took off the nondescript baseball cap and began fanning some of the cold air pouring from the vents toward himself.

“Go try the door,” Bolan said.

“Why me?” Grimaldi winced as he looked outside. “It’s gotta be a hundred and five degrees out there.”

“But it’s a dry heat.” Bolan grinned as he stopped the Escalade.

Grimaldi heaved a sigh and opened the door. He stepped out and slipped on his suit jacket, pantomiming some heavy panting as he said, “Dry or not, it’s damned hot.” He fanned himself with his open palm as he walked slowly to the front door and twisted the knob. The door opened.

The pilot turned toward Bolan with a wide grin, waved and went inside. Bolan pulled into a parking space nearest the door and followed him.

The room was divided into two sections, with a solid rear door leading somewhere. A pair of opaque, plastic shells, about the size of small coffeepots, was affixed to opposite walls, no doubt housing cameras. Their positioning would give a clear view of the entire space 3x to anyone monitoring them.

The office area was rather small, tucked behind the crudely built wooden counter that served as the divider. Metal shelving units behind the counter held stacks of dusty boxes. Crumpled bags from various fast-food restaurants and half-crushed foam coffee cups littered the floor around a small, overflowing garbage can. The place smelled of smoked cigarettes, half-eaten burgers and body odor. A trace of booze lingered in the air as well, like a slightly noticeable aftershave.

A lone figure sat at a small gray desk that held a tattered notebook, a telephone and a calendar.

Grimaldi was already engaged in conversation with him.

“What do you mean, you’re closed?” he asked. “The front door was open.”

“That don’t mean nothing,” the man said. He was a short, gray-bearded guy with an aquiline nose and a handkerchief tied over the front of his head, giving way to a long ponytail in back. His light blue T-shirt was stretched tightly over a belly that indicated a rather flabby, out-of-shape body. Huge rings of sweat radiated from each armpit. He wore a holstered Glock on his right side.

“I’m doing office work at moment. You want to make an appointment, call that number and leave a message.” From the way he spoke Bolan could tell he was missing some teeth in front. The man pointed to a handwritten notice on the wall.

“Actually,” Bolan said, breaking into the conversation, “we won’t take much of your time.” He held up an official-looking credential identifying him as Special Agent Matthew Cooper of the Justice Department. “We need to talk to you about some helicopters you rented.”

The man behind the counter cocked his head back and regarded both of them. His mouth gaped slightly, and his lips twisted into what might have passed for a smile in more pleasant surroundings.

“What exactly are you looking for?” he asked.

Bolan stepped to the counter and took out his notebook as Grimaldi walked to the windows on the opposite end of the room.

“May I have your name, sir?” Bolan asked.

The man’s eyes shifted from him to Grimaldi, then back again.

“I’m Joe Rigello.”

“It’d be easier if you just showed him your driver’s license,” Grimaldi said from the windows.

Before Rigello could reply, the Stony Man pilot cried, “Hey, that wouldn’t be a genuine CH-47 you got out back there, would it?”

Rigello’s eyes went back to him. “Yep. You familiar with Chinooks?”

“Hell, yes,” he said with a wide grin. “Flown many a mission in them in my time.”

“You’re a pilot, huh?” Rigello said.

“Show me your ID,” Bolan said, holding out his hand.

Rigello reached into his pocket and took out a brown leather wallet, one side of which looked as sodden as the underarms of his T-shirt. He dug through it, removed his driver’s license and gave it to Bolan.

“And do my eyes deceive me,” Grimaldi said, his voice imbued with artificial awe, “or is that a genuine Huey Cobra, teeth and all?”

Rigello laughed. “It is. Only without the rockets and minigun.”

“Too bad,” Grimaldi said, grinning back. “Old UH-60s? People want to take tours in those things? They must like sitting on hard surfaces.”

“Looks like you know your helicopters, mister,” Rigello said. “But yeah, we do a lot of work with movie companies. They’re gonna be making another one of them ’Nam movies pretty soon.”

“No kidding?” Grimaldi moved closer to the counter. “You a pilot?”

“Naw.” He shook his head. “I just fix ’em. My brother, Dean, is the pilot.”

“Could you use another one?” Grimaldi flashed him a wide smile. “I love to fly.”

Rigello grinned back, showing his missing front teeth.

It was beginning to sound like a war buddy reunion, Bolan thought. He cleared his throat.

Rigello’s eyes drifted to him as Bolan handed the ID back. “What did you guys say you wanted again?”

“Information,” Bolan said. “The names of the people who rented those three helicopters last Tuesday.”

Rigello ran his tongue over his upper lip and shook his head. “Tuesday?”

“Give or take a day or two,” Bolan said. “They might have rented them before that, but they definitely used them on Tuesday.”

Rigello licked his lips again and gave a little shake of his head. “Don’t sound familiar.”

“Sometimes it’s hard to remember back that far,” Bolan said. “Do you mind if we take a quick look at your books?”

The rear door suddenly opened and a larger, younger version of the man behind the counter came storming in. His face was thinner, but he had the same aquiline nose. This guy’s beard was jet-black, and his hair was pulled back in a similar looking ponytail style. He was also wearing a Glock in a pancake holster.

“Yeah, we do mind,” the new guy said. “Unless you got a warrant.”

He turned to Joe Rigello and said, “What did I tell you about keeping your trap shut?”

Bolan studied the man. From his remarks, it was obvious he had been both watching and listening to the conversation from the next room.

“I’m Special Agent Matthew Cooper, Justice Department,” Bolan said. “This is my partn—”

“I don’t give a shit who you are,” the man said. “We don’t got to show you nothing concerning our business ’less you got a warrant.” He thumped his chest with his fist. “I know the law.”

“No need to get hostile, pal.” Grimaldi strolled over with an ingratiating grin stretched across his face. “Me and your brother here were just talking about helicopters when you interrupted. Uh, at least I’m assuming that you and Joe are related.”

“That’s my brother, Dean,” Joe blurted.

Dean Rigello shot him another look of disdain. “Shut up.”

He turned the look toward Bolan. “Get outta here and don’t come back unless you got a warrant.”

“We’ll look into getting one,” Bolan said, then turned to exit the building, followed by Grimaldi.

“You do that. We run a respectable business here and got nothing to hide.”

“Then what are you afraid of?” Grimaldi asked.

Dean’s head swiveled toward him. “Nothing. I ain’t afraid of nothing.”

“Is that so?” the pilot said.

“Yeah.” Rigello’s lips twisted into a sneer. “I just don’t like cops, is all. I’m a civil libertarian.”

“You know—” Grimaldi looked at Bolan, then back to Rigello “—that reminds me of that old saying, two weeks ago I couldn’t even spell civil libertarian, and now I are one.”

The sneer deepened on Dean Rigello’s hawkish face.

Back in the Escalade, Grimaldi made a clucking sound and said, “That went really well.”

“I don’t know, you and Joe seemed to be getting on, one chopper enthusiast to another.”

“Yeah, but it looks like our boy Dean’s running things.” The pilot directed the air vent toward himself again. “Got any bright ideas about our next move?”

“Maybe,” Bolan said, glancing at his watch. It was 1:54 p.m. He considered their options and decided that time was definitely not on their side. They had to go into accelerated information-gathering mode, and that meant stretching the rules a bit, as needed. He put the Escalade in gear and drove away slowly. “I think perhaps a little heart-to-heart talk with our boy Dean is in order.”

“Especially since he holds the law and his libertarian principles in such high regard.” Grimaldi smiled. “So what do you think? Hard or soft?”

Bolan considered the question, and then said, “Well, we’re pressed for time. I was thinking perhaps the deep blue goodbye.”

Grimaldi nodded. “Good choice.”

* * *

AFTER SLIPPING a clear plastic covering over the license plates of the Escalade, changing the numerals, they spent half an hour finding an old, suitable, sleazy no-tell motel in a semisecluded spot along the stretch of highway. It was only a quarter-mile drive from the Rigello Transport and Tours establishment. The motel, aptly named the Desert Shadows Motel, was laid out in a T-shape, with a dilapidated, but high wooden fence surrounding the rear portion. The fence was obviously intended to shield vehicles from the view of the highway. Wearing his sunglasses and a baseball cap, Grimaldi went in and rented a room for “a four-hour nap,” with a possible extension. He asked for and got one of the rooms on the fenced-in side.

“I’d like to inspect the room before I rent it,” he said.

The clerk stared at him through the heavy sheet of smudged Plexiglas that separated his booth from the customer portion of the front counter, and then shoved a key with a plastic tag attached through the slot at the bottom. “Be my guest.” The guy looked like a human version of a Gila monster—no neck, just a massive head set on top of a pair of narrow shoulders. He moved with a lizardlike precision, too. “Just give me your ID until you bring the key back, and pay.”

Grimaldi pulled out an authentic-looking driver’s license for one Irving Grim out of Los Angeles, California, and tossed it into the slotted portion. He then walked briskly out of the office and went through a small passageway that separated the motel office from the rooms. The tag on the key had a 9 emblazoned on it, although the white lettering was virtually worn off.

The pilot opened the door and surveyed the interior. A dilapidated double bed took up most of one side. A beat-up wooden table with a phone sat off to the left, and at the foot of the bed was another table with an old-fashioned television on top. An odd-looking box was attached to the side of the set, with a coin slot on the top. A hand-printed sign taped to the box read: Adult Movies for Rent. 25 Cents for Three Minutes. Quarters Available in Office.