King Con (31 page)

“I got lotsa stamina, I can stay hard for hours,” Keith Summerland was bragging. He had turned around and was looking at Dakota in the back seat, a big wide leer on his flat, uninteresting features. “Soon as Tommy gets through with you, I’ll take you someplace and give you a demonstration. Some guys don’t like going down, but my tongue can do magic tricks. You’re gonna beg me for more. Then you get to sit on Mr. Buffy. You’re gonna get a ride you won’t forget.”

Dakota couldn’t believe this piece of shit. The minute Tommy got out of the car, he’d started up with this. Dakota could barely talk because of the pain and he was up there bragging about his Johnson, which he’d named Mr. Buffy. She tried to get more comfortable.

“Right now, you’re probably thinkin’ you’re gonna find a way to get out of it, but Tommy’s nuts. He’s not like other guys. I ask him if he’s through with ya, he’ll give ya to me.” He grinned at her; he was twisted around in the front seat and eyed her hungrily like she had just been served to him, fully garnished, at a steak-house. “You’re gonna see a lot of me for a while.”

Changing conversational topics, but not anatomical subjects, “Look, I didn’t get a chance t’take a leak back at the airport,” he said. “‘Gonna go over t’that stand a’trees over there, and tap a kidney. I should tell you when I played football I did a four-six in full pads, in
the forty, so don’t try an’ take off on me. You ain’t gonna make it,” he bragged.

“I’ll be right here,” she said softly.

He got out of the car and moved away from the limousine. As soon as he was gone, Dakota struggled up, grimacing in pain. She reached over the front seat, grabbed the cellphone, and dialed a number.

In the motor home, Victoria was startled to hear a phone ringing somewhere. She had to go searching for it. It was on a table in the bedroom.

“Hello?” she answered.

“It’s Dakota …” But Victoria thought she sounded funny. Her voice was deeper and without the “fuck you” lilt it had before.

“Where are you?” Victoria asked.

“Parked in the marina parking lot … probably about twenty yards from you. Look, I don’t have much time. Tell Beano I can’t control this guy. I’ve lost him.”

“Are you okay?”

“Tell him I need to get out of here. I’m trashed. I think I’m hurt real bad. Something inside is leaking. … The pain’s getting worse. I don’t have much left. …”

“He’s in the houseboat. They’re in there with him.” And then Victoria could see the big bodyguard coming back from the trees, zipping his fly. “Listen, Dakota, your guard’s coming back. I’ll find a way to get you out of there. I promise. Hang tough,” Victoria said, not at all sure how she was going to accomplish that feat, and then, just as the bodyguard approached the car, she heard two shots ring out. They actually sounded like dry limbs snapping off some distant tree. It took her several seconds to identify them as gunfire.

“You hear that?” Dakota asked. “Shots. This guy Tommy is nuts.”

“I’ll get you outta there but the other guy is right
outside your car. Hang up!” Victoria said.

The line cut out as Keith Summerland turned to look down at the houseboat. He made no move to check out the shots. It was almost as if he expected them.

Then Victoria saw Roger-the-Dodger running awkwardly up the gangplank. He seemed to be limping. He moved past Keith Summerland, who turned to watch as the little terrier teetered across the pavement toward the Winnebago, barely staying upright. He got halfway there and fell over on his side. Then he pulled himself up and kept going, now almost dragging his hind end. Victoria could hear him whimpering as he got nearer. Then the heavyweight who had turned momentarily to watch the wounded dog refocused his attention on the houseboat. He started to walk down the ramp, then stopped. He was still in view of her with his back to the motor home. Roger-the-Dodger was moving very slowly now, and it didn’t look like he would make it, so Victoria decided to risk going to him. With Keith’s back still to her, she opened the door, ran outside, and scooped the terrier up. When she picked him up, his whole back end was wet and covered with blood. She ran back into the motor home, closed the door, and locked it. She laid Roger on the floor. He looked up at her with an expression she could describe only as gratitude.

“Rogie,” she said, scrambling up to get a wet towel from the bathroom, “what happened, honey?” She returned and carefully washed his hind quarters, then examined the wound. She could see that there was a large, deep crease cut into his right flank. As she leaned down to clean it, he stopped whimpering, then unexpectedly licked her face.

They came out of the houseboat and moved along the rickety dock. Jimmy Freeze had his hand on Beano, Wade Summerland was holding Duffy, and Tommy
Rina was bringing up the rear. He had found some first-aid supplies aboard and had bandaged up his neck. He was moving with a long stride to keep up with the two larger men. They approached the limousine and waited for Tommy, then got in.

When Beano saw Dakota, his stomach dropped. She had been brutally beaten; she sat in the back seat, her head back, her eyes barely open. He got in with Duffy; the last in was Tommy. Jimmy and Wade sat in the front with Keith.

“Little mutt came runnin’ up here,” Keith said, “piece of his ass missing.”

“Good, maybe he’ll bleed to death. Get rollin’,” Tommy barked. Keith put the car in motion and they drove out of the parking lot.

“Are you okay?” Beano asked Dakota.

She nodded, but didn’t say anything. She seemed completely drained of energy.

Tommy handed a slip of paper to Jimmy Freeze. “Jimmy, go to this address. It’s a service company called … what?”

“West Coast Platform Drilling,” Beano said, and he looked out the window for Roger. He knew if the little terrier hadn’t attacked Tommy, he would be dead. He saw blood on the pavement where Roger had fallen and prayed Roger-the-Dodger was alive. Then Beano looked back at Dakota and took stock of where they were. He knew it was up to him to keep them alive. He had to stay focused.

The plan had worked. Tommy seemed hooked, but in a good scam, the sharpers weren’t supposed to get hurt. He looked again at Dakota. He didn’t like the color of her complexion.

In the motor home, Victoria had tried to perform first aid on Roger. She found an Ace bandage in the bathroom.
She put a clean washcloth on the wound and then tried to wrap the bandage as tight as she could to stem the bleeding. Then she carried Roger over to the sofa and carefully laid him there. “I’ll take you to the vet as soon as I can,” she told him, but she knew she also had to stay close to Duffy and Beano. She didn’t know if the other shot had hit one of them. She couldn’t lose Dakota. Victoria had been distressed by the sound of her voice.

Then she had seen Tommy and the two huge bodyguards leading Duffy and Beano up the ramp. She grabbed the camera and focused on them as they walked up under the overhead light in the marina parking lot. She got three good shots of Beano and Duffy with Tommy by the car before they got in. In one shot Beano turned toward the lens, smiled, and put his arm around Tommy. She snapped the shot before the little mobster knocked Beano’s arm off.

As the limo pulled out of the parking lot, Victoria put the big motor home in gear and followed with the headlights out. She wasn’t sure what she was going to do. This was not going exactly the way Beano had described. She looked back at Roger, who was lying on the sofa, his chin on his paws, looking up at her. He seemed to be asking, “What now?” A question she couldn’t answer.

Then the limo turned onto the freeway and headed northwest, toward Modesto.

Victoria Hart, who had once been voted the “most organized”’ in her senior class, who since law school had never made an important move without planning it and mapping it out meticulously, now blindly followed the black stretch limo up onto the freeway. She knew she had no chance to plan anything. With her heart beating frantically, she gripped the steering wheel in desperation and decided this time, she would just have to go with the flow.

T
HE WEST COAST PLATFORM DRILLING COMPANY WAS
in a warehouse district in the small town of Livingston, twenty miles southeast of Modesto. The sign on the corrugated tin building was freshly painted and showed a derrick with oil shooting out of the top. In the fenced yard were rolls of cable and used parts. A roof light threw its glare across the enclosed parking lot. The limo pulled in and stopped. It was 10:15
P.M.

Beano looked over at Dakota, who had her eyes closed now and was breathing with difficulty. Her head was tilted back, resting on the back seat; her skin color was pasty.

“You gotta take her to a hospital,” Beano said.

Tommy looked over at Dakota for a long, speculative moment. “Why?” he finally said.

“She looks horrible. Something’s wrong with her.”

“Are we talkin’ about the same cunt who put something in my drink so I’d pass out, so you two fucks could run the table on me at my own club and get my brother so pissed he starts cussing?”

“She needs to be looked at,” Beano insisted.

“Hey, Dr. Dipshit, or whatever your fuckin’ name is—”

“It’s Douglas,” Beano said stubbornly.

“You called the tune, Douglas, this is the fucking music. Now let’s go see this asshole.” He grabbed Beano and pushed him out of the limo. As Beano passed in front of Dakota, she opened her eyes and they exchanged looks. Beano didn’t like what he saw there.

They were all out of the limo. Only Keith was left behind with Dakota. They moved to a side door of the corrugated metal warehouse. Beano knocked; Duffy was standing right behind him.

“Donovan, it’s me. It’s Dr. Clark and Dr. Sutton,” Beano yelled, and in a minute, the side door was unbolted and Steven Bates was standing there, wearing old coveralls with W.C.P.D. stitched on the pocket. He was wiping his hands with an old rag and looking warily out the slit in the door at Beano and Duffy.

“Dr. Clark, Dr. Sutton.” He nodded; then his eyes shifted to Tommy and the two wide-bodies behind him. “Who are they?” Steve asked.

Tommy moved in front of Beano and stuck the automatic in Steve’s face. “I’m your new drilling partner.”

Steve looked down at the barrel of the 9mm SIG-Sauer and swallowed hard, dismay on his sun-reddened features.

“Inside. We ain’t havin’ this stockholders’ meeting in the street. Let’s go.” And Tommy pushed Beano and Duffy into the warehouse. Jimmy Freeze and Wade Summerland came in last and closed the door.

The inside of the warehouse had been carefully dressed by Steven. He had leased the building and rented everything. Two large portable water pumps with metal derricks that were used for agricultural field irrigation were on rolling pallets in the center of the warehouse floor. Even though they were water pumps, they looked enough like oil derricks to fool the uninitiated layman. Steve had helped the deception by labeling one
OIL
PUMPING UNIT C
, the other
OIL PUMPING UNIT J.
He had rolls of cable strewn around and a forklift parked in plain view. A small safe was conspicuous in the corner. Everything was on a two-week rental from a farm supply company just two blocks away. The hand props he had rented from a dive shop in Modesto.

“What the heck’s this?” Steve Bates said, as he looked down at the gun in Tommy’s hand.

“You ain’t askin’ the questions, Joe Bob, you’re answerin’ ‘em. I wanna hear about this od field you found in Oak Crest.”

Steve Bates looked warily at Beano, then at Tommy. “There’s no field,” he stammered. “That’s just a buncha dry holes. Wish t’heck we’d a’hit something, by God.”

“Forget it, Donovan,” Beano said. “He’s seen all the graphs, the seismic shots. We told him everything.”

“You told him?”
The betrayal in Steven Bates’s voice was nothing short of Shakespearean.

“Let’s try and get past that, Donovan. The fact is we need more money anyway. We can’t control this thing with just a hundred thousand shares. We’re outta dme.” Beano pushed his glasses up on his nose.

Steven Bates looked at Beano and then his eyes slid back to Tommy. “I don’t know what he’s talking about,” he said, but his voice was hesitant now.

“Then lemme put it in line for you,” Tommy said. “I wanna see this field in Oak Crest and you buncha pricks is gonna take me there tonight. How far away is that?”

“‘Bout an hour,” Beano said.

“Dr. Clark,” Steve said, “this was a tight hole. How could ya tell ‘em?”

“I didn’t have a choice. He followed us back from Sabre Bay. He found everything. He’s got the stock certificates. Besides, I think we should take him as a partner.
We’re better off letting him in on this. Believe me, we can’t control it ourselves anyway.”

Tommy glared at Beano. “I’m not in on anything yet, asshole. I’m on a fact-finding mission, and I’m tryin’ t’get my million dollars back. So far, all you got from me is some mild interest. If I don’t get a lot more info in the next few hours, I’m gonna cash in these stock certificates, get my money back, and you guys are all deader than junkie luck.” He thumbed the hammer back and pointed it at Steve. “Are we straight?” Steve nodded. “Then keep talkin’.”

“The Fentress County Petroleum and Gas Company stock is falling,” Steve Bates said. “We bought it at ten, it’s already at eight. The rumor is out that Fentress County can’t make their bank payments. Their cash flow is too low. Buncha big stockholders are already calling for a meeting in San Francisco at the main office. They wanna liquidate the company. It’s hit the street already that they’re in trouble. Even if you cash in those hundred thousand shares, you’re not gonna get back much more than seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”

Tommy’s eyes were roaming the warehouse. “You use this shit to drill them elimination wells?” he asked, motioning at the equipment, his mind already racing ahead.

“Delineation wells,” Steve Bates corrected him. “Yeah, them small rigs only drill a six-eighths-of-an-inch hole that we side-cement with sleeveless piping. These units are good for slant drilling or directional drilling. Once we hit oil or natural gas, we put on one a’these,” Steve said, picking up a small gauge attached to rubber hosing that had been rented from the Modesto Dive Shack. The gauge was actually part of an air-flow regulator.