The Vets (Stephen Leather Thrillers) (7 page)

“Yeah? Chopper saved my life. If the Dustoff pilot hadn’t got me out of there as quick as he did, I wouldn’t be around now. I mean, sometimes I think that it might have been better if …”

Lehman heard Komer’s wife interrupt and then Komer saying, “Yeah, yeah, I know, I know,” to her. “Tracey doesn’t like it when I talk like that,” he explained to Lehman.

“I can understand why,” said Lehman. “Look, Rob, you didn’t tell me you were a vet. If you had it would’ve put a different complexion on my advice to you, investment-wise.”

“I don’t follow.”

“The investment advice I gave you was based on the assumption that you were working, that you didn’t have any health problems, that medical bills wouldn’t be on the cards. I’ll be honest, if I’d known that you were disabled, I wouldn’t have suggested that you go into oil, I really wouldn’t. Your wife is right, a man in your position would be better paying off his mortgage and leaving the rest in the bank.”

“Yeah? Hell, where does that leave me, then?”

“Well, like I said, we haven’t got your cheque yet. Why don’t you just call your bank right now and get them to cancel your cheque?”

“But what about the 15,000 dollar profit we made?”

“Let me be honest, Rob, the dealing costs will just about swallow up all of that, and there’ll be a delay in getting the money to you. Far better we simply call it off right now. Just cancel the cheque, okay?”

“Okay, Michael, I’ll do that.”

“If you need any more advice about investing, go along to your local VA office. They’ll be able to steer you in the right direction. And Rob, take care of your wife, you hear? She’s got a good head on her shoulders. She knows what she’s doing.”

“You’re not telling me anything I didn’t already know,” said Komer. “Thanks, Michael, I really appreciate it.”

When Lehman cut the line he looked up and saw Cilento watching him, the receiver of his own phone pressed against his ear. Cilento was glaring at him under bushy eyebrows, his other hand clenching and unclenching on the table. He slammed down the receiver and stood up so violently that his chair fell over.

“Lehman! My office,” he yelled and stormed into his glass cubicle where he paced up and down, powerful arms swinging at his side. Most of the slammers were too engrossed in their own sales pitches to notice what was going on, but Dillman watched Lehman with concern in his eyes.

“Shut the fucking door, you two-faced son-of-a-bitch,” cursed Cilento as Lehman arrived.

Lehman did as he was told, but he kept facing Cilento as he closed the door. The man wasn’t the type you’d turn your back on at the best of times.

“I can’t fucking well believe what I just heard,” ranted Cilento, pacing up and down in front of his desk. His face was red and a vein was pulsing in his temple and his eyes were filled with hatred. “How much was that sucker in for?”

Lehman shrugged. “One two five K, I guess.”

Cilento clenched his fists and slammed them against his sides. “Is he one of your own clients, or was he one of my leads?”

Lehman knew that there was no point in lying because Cilento kept records of all the leads he supplied to the slammers. They got a smaller commission for in-house leads than if they used their own initiative to find someone to dance with. “He was one of yours, Max.”

Cilento stopped pacing and walked up to Lehman, thrusting his head forward on his bull neck so that he was only inches away from Lehman’s face. His breath smelt of stale onions and tobacco. “So let me get this fucking straight, Mr Good Fucking Samaritan. I give you a lead which is good for 125,000 dollars, and you go and tell him to cancel his cheque because his investment is a touch risky. That’d be about it, would it? Or did I miss something? Well, Mr Wonderful, did I fucking well miss something, or what?”

Lehman could see flecks of spittle on Cilento’s moustache as he glared up at him. Cilento was a good three inches shorter than Lehman and he appeared even shorter because of the way he was pushing his head forward, but his lack of height made him no less intimidating. Cilento was well used to using his anger as a weapon and defeating bigger opponents by the sheer force of his personality, but he was also capable of brutal violence so Lehman looked him straight in the eye, waiting for any sign that he was about to strike.

“That’s pretty much what happened, Max,” he said quietly. He had no intention of explaining himself to Cilento. His feelings about vets and his responsibility to them was not something he could share with anyone, certainly not a muscle-bound, ranting thug who wouldn’t have been out of place in a boxing ring.

“And how do you think I’m going to explain to my fucking brother that I’m short 125,000 dollars?” Cilento shouted. He waved a gold-ringed fist under Lehman’s nose, pushed him back with his other hand, flat against his chest. He pulled back his fist and grunted, but before he could land the punch Lehman drew his knee up sharply and thrust it into Cilento’s groin. Cilento yelled and bent double and both of his hands instinctively went down between his legs as if they’d be able to massage away the pain. His head was level with Lehman’s chest and he was too close for Lehman to punch him so he used his elbow instead, banging it hard against Cilento’s temple and knocking him cold. Cilento slumped to the ground, his hands still clapped against his groin, blood trickling down his chin because he’d bitten his tongue when Lehman hit him.

“I’ve always wanted to do that,” said a voice at the doorway.

Lehman looked up to see Dillman standing there. He hadn’t heard the door open, but Dillman had hold of the handle, the upper part of his body leaning in as if he was afraid to put his feet on Cilento’s carpet. Lehman rubbed his right elbow. “Be my guest,” he laughed.

“Nah, I’d never hit a man when he’s down. Not even a piece of shit like Cilento.” He peered down at the body. “He’s not dead, is he?” As if in answer Cilento rolled on to his side and drew his legs up to his stomach. “Nope, he’s not dead,” said Dillman. “Never mind, better luck next time. What are you going to do, Dan?”

Lehman ran his hand over his face and rubbed his cheek thoughtfully. “I guess now would be a bad time to ask him for a raise, huh?”

Dillman laughed and slipped inside the door, closing it behind him. The upper section of Cilento’s cubicle was glass, the lower was aluminium panelling so the slammers outside couldn’t see Cilento’s body on the floor. “Seriously, Dan, you’ve got a mess of trouble here, you know that. Cilento’s brother isn’t going to let you get away with this. It’s a matter of honour. It doesn’t matter what a shit Max is, you attack him, you attack the family.”

“What if I were to say I was sorry?” asked Dan, grinning.

“I doubt it would do any good.”

“What if I were to say I was really sorry?”

Dillman laughed. “It’s good to see you’ve still got your sense of humour, Dan. But I doubt that you’ll be laughing when Mario Cilento gets hold of you.”

“Yeah, you’re right. I guess now’s as good a time as any to move on.”

“Why was he having a go at you?”

Lehman didn’t want to tell Dillman how he’d let Komer off the hook so he just said, “Money. He reckoned I wasn’t trying hard enough.”

“Hell, Dan, you’re doing better than anyone else out there. His brother must be putting him under pressure. You know that Mario has been using this operation to launder mob money?”

“No, I didn’t,” Lehman answered. So long as his commission cheque arrived each month, Lehman hadn’t given any thought to the workings of the boiler room.

“Just remember that Cilento is connected. It won’t be enough to get out of Los Angeles, or even Orange County. You’re only going to be safe if you leave the States, for a while at least. Cilento’ll move heaven and earth to get even.”

Lehman was beginning to realise what a hole he’d dug for himself. He’d reacted instinctively to Cilento’s threatened attack and hadn’t given any thought to the consequences. If he’d avoided hitting Cilento he could perhaps have worked out some sort of deal, taken a lower commission on the next few hits, promised to make good the deficit. Lehman always preferred to talk his way out of trouble whenever possible. He’d seen more than enough violence in Vietnam to last him a lifetime and knew that it rarely solved anything. But Cilento had given him no room for manoeuvre and he hadn’t been prepared to take a punch in the mouth just to keep his job. Lehman wasn’t a man given to losing his temper, but he wasn’t the type to back away from a fight, either. And besides, it had sure felt good when his knee had connected with Cilento’s private parts. “Thanks for the advice, Gordon.”

Cilento groaned on the floor but his eyes were still closed tight. Lehman stepped over him and began sorting through the unopened envelopes on Cilento’s desk. He found one postmarked Albany and tore it open. Inside was Rob Komer’s cheque for 125,000 dollars. Lehman tore it up into small pieces and dropped them over Cilento’s head. He could see that Dillman was dying to ask what he was doing but Lehman just shook his hand and left the office without saying another word. One or two of the slammers looked up as he picked up his Rolodex and the few personal possessions he had in his desk drawer, but they were all too busy on the phone to say anything to him.

In the underground car park far below the boiler room, Lehman threw his Rolodex on to the back seat of his Porsche and drove out into the bright LA sunshine. He took a pair of Ray-Bans from his glove compartment and slipped them on. He reckoned he had about fifteen minutes until Cilento had recovered enough to call his brother, and maybe half an hour after that before they’d be able to get some heavies around to his apartment. Lehman looked at the Mickey Mouse watch on his wrist. The roads were relatively clear and he’d be able to get home within ten minutes, giving him just enough time to throw a few clothes into a suitcase and grab the cash hidden under the bedroom carpet. The apartment, like the furniture, the electrical equipment and the car, were all leased. He dismissed the idea of driving out to the airport because he was sure that Cilento would have that covered. He’d drop off the car, hire something less conspicuous from Hertz, and drive to San Francisco. From there he’d catch a Greyhound and head east, to Chicago maybe. And in a couple of days he’d catch a plane out to Asia. He’d been thinking of taking a trip to the Far East for some time, ever since he saw a newspaper advert that had intrigued him. A travel agency based in Chicago was offering to take Vietnam War veterans back to Vietnam, partly as a holiday and partly to help them come to terms with what had happened out there.

The idea appealed to Lehman: Vietnam had long been an itch that he’d felt incapable of scratching, a source of memories and ghosts that kept coming back to haunt him more than twenty years after he’d taken the Freedom Bird back to the world. Now was the perfect time to go back. As he waited at a red light the irony of it suddenly made him smile. The way things were going, Vietnam was just about the safest place on Earth he could be just then.

The mission was straightforward. The team of hand-picked mercenaries had to fight their way through tough jungle terrain, seize a powerful speedboat and fight their way upriver to a canyon held by rebel forces. Once they’d reached the canyon they were to dump the boat and shoot it out on foot until they arrived at an enemy camp where five hostages were being held in a fortified three-storey block. The mercenaries were to release all the hostages, shoot their way out of the camp and seize a plane at the nearby airport which they would fly to safety. It was straightforward, but if they were to succeed they would need a hell of a lot of luck. Luck, and skill, and quarters.

Jonathan Pimlott had yet to see anyone get through the entire video game for less than three dollars and it usually took him about four, but he was getting better, no doubt about it. The canyon stage was the worst, he kept running out of ammunition before reaching the far end and enemy forces ripped him apart while he was helpless. The electronic images had no mercy. There was no possibility of surrender. It was kill or be killed.

There was no one on the video game when Pimlott and his girlfriend arrived at the arcade so he told her to stand in front of it while he got change. Pimlott had loved video arcades ever since he’d first been taken into one by his father when he was just six years old. Now he spent almost all of his spare cash on the machines and often visited one of his favourite arcades before morning lectures. He was a second-year law student and he always rebutted claims that he was addicted to the games by arguing that he needed something to counterbalance all the reading he had to do. He seemed to spend half his life with his nose buried in law books, and that couldn’t be healthy, could it? He didn’t have time to waste playing football or tennis or any of the pursuits that the university’s jocks devoted themselves to. He barely had enough time to satisfy Suzanne, though at least she appeared to share his enthusiasm for arcades. He had only been going out with the pretty blonde for three weeks so he wasn’t sure yet if she was faking it. Most of his former girlfriends had pretended to enjoy his daily visits to the arcades but had soon begun nagging him to go see a movie or a ball game instead once they realised that it wasn’t a temporary fad.

He hoped that Suzanne wouldn’t go the same way. She had the cutest butt and the best legs and, swear to God, she loved to play Nintendo while they were in bed. That had been a first, a definite first.

The change booth was squashed between an air-hockey table and a bright red motorcycle mounted in front of a video screen. Kid’s stuff, Pimlott reckoned. He opened his wallet and took out a ten dollar bill.