Gray Area (10 page)

“In the ass,” he panted.

She smiled and cocked an eyebrow.  She’d done this before.

And that’s when his cell phone rang.

He was tempted to ignore it, inasmuch as there was about to be some
significant anal fun in the very near future.  But his professional sense
kicked in as he sighed and looked to both girls.

“Please excuse me, luvs,” he said, then reached for the phone, and
flipped open the speaker.

“I hope this is pretty fucking important,” he said in a very calm voice.

“Yes, Preston, it is.”

Ah, the distinct, dulcet tones of authority and money, Giles thought,
recognizing the voice of Charles LeMay.

“Wishing me a very merry Christmas, Charles?  If so, thank you, but
I’m busy, and may I call you later?”

“We need to talk.”

“Now?”

“If you don’t mind,” LeMay said.  The phone went suddenly
dead.  Which did not surprise Giles at all.  His former boss was not
a man of gentle small talk.

Giles studied the two hard bodied island girls in his bed, the empty
champagne bottles, the mirror with the dusting of power.  Tanya was now
tonguing Astrid and sliding her thumb into Astrid’s anus (a romantic touch,
Giles thought absently), lubricating it with saliva in preparation for the next
round.  Astrid appeared enthusiastic about the proceedings.  Giles
moved toward her, wondering even as he did, what in the hell LeMay wanted him
for
this
time. 

He smiled at Astrid.

“Now … where were we?…”

Preston Giles had only one objective at this stage in life (aside from
three-way fun with young hookers):  retirement.  He deserved
it.  He had fought and worked for it over the decades and, by god, it was
within reach.  Nothing, absolutely nothing, was going to be an impediment
to that objective.  Well, almost nothing.  That ‘almost nothing’
being this last assignment which was literally forced down his throat by the
Vice Chairman of Arc-Link Industries himself, Charles LeMay.  LeMay had
called him again half an hour earlier while Preston was still in his car. 

Apparently, there was one helluva mess over at Arc-Link’s representative
law firm of Berenson & Marelli, and
only
Giles could band-aid it to
everyone’s satisfaction. 

That was the party line, anyway.

Translated it meant someone else screwed up big-time, and now he was
being called in to “fix things.”  That’s what he did.  Fixed
things.  He’d been doing it for Arc-Link for years.  Arc-Link, a
monster of an arms manufacturer contracted exclusively to the Defense
Department of the United States of America, was presently obstructing any
attempt on his part to purchase a motor home, look for that beachfront property
he’d promised himself now for a dog’s age and, for that matter, to finish his
tender ministrations with the young island girls.  At least to his full
satisfaction.  Oh, sure, he’d charge their asses for his trouble, for his
talents, for LeMay’s rude interruption, but still … this was
his
time. 

It was the principle of the thing.

Giles had officially given notice to Arc-Link three months ago and was
rewarded with a substantial pension and a modest little bonus of around four
million dollars.  He had performed well in those years with Arc-Link and
put out a few fires that would have otherwise proved embarrassing.  Like
when Vice President John Tildon embezzled one point five million dollars of
petty cash from Corporate in Washington D.C. and, once caught, threatened to go
to the Senate Subcommittee on Defense Spending with house secrets.  That
was a no-no.  So, John Tildon and his wife disappeared one night while
traveling to their Maine summerhouse from Georgetown.  Their car and their
bodies were never found.

The Giles Signature of Success.

There was also the incident with Congressman Peter Glenn who had insisted
on an executive order for a complete audit of all defense contractors within
the United States, along with a list of off-shore clientele.  Congressman
Glenn was a vocal fellow and had the ear of the president—the two gents being
old asshole buddies from Texas A&M a hundred years ago or so. 
Tragically, the Congressman was carjacked one night just outside his home in
Arlington, Virginia.  They found his body near the car, but they never
found his head.

Good, clean, professional craftsmanship.

There were a dozen stories more and Giles, a reasonable man, felt that it
was time to rest on his laurels and kick back for what remained of his
life.  Maybe take up oils, or gardening.  Maybe fishing.  In
other words, it was time to stop.

Well, that had been the plan ninety days ago.

But now he was being called back.  For just one last assignment.

Why did he say yes?  Why, again?  Why not just tell the good
Vice Chairman to go stuff it where the sun would never shine? 

A little thing, really.  One million dollars for a few days
work. 
Okay, so call me weak
, he thought.  But one million
willy-wonkas could pay for a new boat, the Emperor Package at Caesar’s Palace
for a couple of years, and a panoply of young, red-hot smoking hookers. 
Not to mention a few other luxuries he couldn’t immediately think of but knew
were on the list of ‘Giles Must-Haves.’  It always came down to money, and
that was the truth of it.  The tawdry temptation of coin.

Now, driving up from Escondido and heading for Anaheim, Preston Giles
ruminated as to what was so damned important that Arc-Link would require his
time and effort.  The only clue he was given was that the problem had to
do with Arc-Link’s legal personnel.  Another embezzlement issue?  No,
there were other “fixers” within the inner circle that could take care of such
a mundane issue.  A special contract on yet another ill-behaved Arc-Link
executive?  Perhaps but, again, there was no reason to bring him back for
something like that.  Besides, LeMay would never bring Giles back for
something as pedestrian as a family hit.  No, this was something
different.  And if a million bucks was being paid for the job, then it was
worth it to the company to have Giles personally involved.  Personal
involvement by Giles guaranteed zero failure – and Giles knew everyone knew
that. 

So, there it was.  Big and important.

He pulled into the familiar parking lot and was ushered through by the
security guard without even a blink of an eye.  Few employees of Arc-Link
were so easily admitted to the sacrosanct inner workings as Preston
Giles.  Few
ex
-employees either.

LeMay was waiting for him, office door wide open.  Giles gave an
informal wave to the Vice Chairman, who motioned him to sit down, as he nodded
into the phone.

“Yeah, I get it,” LeMay snarled in a low voice.  “It should never
have come to this.”

Giles waited, feigning interest in a potted plant that sat on the corner
of LeMay’s desk.  He glanced at his watch—a tacit move to let the Chairman
know his time was valuable.  LeMay got the message.

“Listen, I’ll get back to you.  I have the answer to our problem
sitting opposite me at this very moment,” LeMay said, then put the phone back
in the cradle.  He extended his hand to Giles.

“Good seeing you, Preston,” he said.

“Thought the next time we’d meet would be at the Christmas party,” Giles
said easily.

“Things change,” LeMay said, shrugging.  “We’ve got a bit of a
monkey-spunk situation on our hands, Preston.  And I don’t want it to get
any more ass-fucked, blood and semen running down our legs and it’s time to find
a diaper, if you know what I mean.”

“Sounds serious.”

“It’s more unexpected and nuisance in nature, but I want to nip it in the
bud now.  And, you’ll be happy to know, it’s a relatively simple
assignment,” LeMay said through a sigh. 

“Lovely.”

“Yes.  And you won’t be alone.  We’ll give you some bodies to
lend a hand.” 

“I love bodies,” Giles said and smiled.

“Here’s the shit of it:  Our legal department is down two
problematic attorneys.  That’s fine, but we have another issue.” 

“I can hardly wait to hear what it is,” Giles said, smiling.

“It’s an unexpected fly in the ointment,” LeMay said.  “Like I said,
I don’t want it to get out of hand.”

“Why not use your first man—the one who made your two attorneys go
away?  Sounds like he did well and could do so again,” Giles said.

“Nah, not possible,” LeMay waved his hand dismissingly.   “Too
much exposure.  And that party has indicated that it simply won’t take on
another assignment so close to home.”

“Close to home?”

“We have someone inside Arc-Link helping us.  But this party is
close to the Top Dog himself, the partners I mean, and has indicated little
interest in this assignment.”

“Ah, a problem unto itself.”

“A great ass-fuck of an inconvenience but we’re dealing.  That’s why
you’re here.”

Very cryptic, Giles thought, but didn’t really dwell on LeMay’s need for
secrecy at the moment.  In truth, he didn’t give a fuck.  Method and
timeliness of payment were at the forefront of his interest.  That and the
target.

As if reading Preston’s mind, LeMay picked up a file and handed it to
him.  “Here’s your Kodak moment.  We need this done Fed Ex, no two
day service.”

Giles scanned the file, the face, then finally the location.  No big
sweat.  My god, he’d never earn another cool million as easily
again.  This one he could probably do alone, without LeMay’s offer of
other assistance, but he figured the company was just covering all their
tracks.

And as LeMay said, this target really, really had to go away, and
snippity-snap at that.  Fine.

“Okay,” Giles said.  “And the money?”

“We already talked figures.  That’s not a problem.  We’ll
deposit it in your usual account in the Caymans.  Unless things have
changed?”

Giles smiled.  Oh, yes, things have changed.  The biggie being
he was soon to be out of this crap of a career and kicking it in the
Bahamas.  Long legged women, Mai-tais, and all the time in the world.

“Nah, no changes,” Giles said.

The two men stood, and LeMay shook his hand.  “We will see you at
the Christmas Party, yes?”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Giles smiled without losing a beat and then turned and left the room.

THIRTEEN

Marianne Simpson had lived well, this much Diamond could discern. 
The house Turner pulled in front of was one of those Mexican Hacienda
imitations, and a damn good one at that.  A little fountain with a
sleeping poncho boy in a sombrero trickled water from the boy’s mouth, while
two little cherubs were both pissing colored water into a small, ceramic bowl
near the front door.  There was even a cactus garden lining the perimeter
of the house itself.  Here in the middle of West Hollywood a home like
this went for almost a million bucks; hell, maybe over a mil.  Diamond
thought depressingly of his studio hell with a family of cockroaches and a lawn
chair for a bed. 

 By some unhappy coincidence, just as Turner parked the car in the
elaborate driveway, two black and whites saddled along the sidewalk.  Ted
Burke got out of one of the cars, already looking about as friendly as a pit
viper and ready for a fight.  Diamond recognized his sometimes partner,
Biff Wincock (loved the name, Diamond always mused, but the guy himself was a
pluperfect prick—the perfect adjunct to the already prickish Burke). 
Burke headed toward them, a large bull preparing for the run.

“Ah, shit,” Turner muttered. “All I need is to hear him whine to me that
you’re out of your jurisdiction again.  Just what I don’t fuckin’ need.”

Diamond nudged Turner in the ribs. “Smile, pardner.  It always
works.”

Turner smiled broadly at Burke and Wincock.  “Ted.  Biff. 
You bastards.  What are you doing here?”

“Heard there was a GQ underwear commercial,” Wincock shot back, his eyes
already scanning Diamond with ill-concealed dislike.  “Knew I’d book the
audition.”

“You pretty boys are all alike, and, shit, if my black dick isn’t
boasting half a stalk,” Turner chuckled then looked to Burke.  “Can’t tell
you how much our little talk perked me up this morning, Ted.  Didn’t even
need my lithium afterwards.”

“Eat me, Turner,” Burke said, glaring at Diamond.  “I thought we had
an understanding.  I thought you were going to talk to Wonder Boy here.”

Turner shrugged diplomatically.  “We talked.  And he’s within
his rights to conduct an investigation on this matter.  If you want codes
and regulations cited, I have those available.  As long as he’s not
stepping on official toes, he’s free to play.”

Again, Burke realized this was another battle not a game for the
winning.  “Well, you’re wasting your time anyway.  We came by last
night and earlier this morning.  No Don Simpson, not a goddamn trace.”

And not a good sign, Diamond thought to himself.  Chips were
mounting up in favor for Don Simpson’s guilt in the killing of his wife and
lover.  Diamond began to walk toward the front door.

“He’s not there,” Burke said easily.  “We’ve been watching the place
for the past twelve hours.  No one has come out or gone in.”

“Then there’s no harm in knocking,” Diamond said just as easily. 
Translated:  Fuck you, Burke.  You don’t tell me what to do,
ever. 

“Suit yourself.  It’s—”

But Burke was cut short by the two gunshots.  Windows crashed
outward and suddenly big-prick Wincock was screaming—a bullet lodged in his
thigh.  Burke turned toward Wincock’s scream, but was knocked to the
ground by a slug to the gut.  Burke went down, an audible gasp of pained
astonishment escaping his lips. 

Diamond dove behind some garbage cans and shoved Turner behind the
fountain just as more gunfire tore the sombrero right off the stone
fixture.  Wincock took another shot, this time to his shoulder.  One
of the cops back by the black and whites went down, his arms shredded at the
elbow joint.  The other cop returned fire and, per protocol, was on the
squawk calling for major backup.