Yeah, Pelly seemed okay, but that didn't mean he wouldn't think twice about shooting the behemoth in the head if he had to.
Then Pelly started to speak in that slow English he had. He looked at Ike but spoke for the mechanic to hear. "I know this gentleman is a businessman. He deals with stolen trucks. That's for profit, no?" He looked at the mechanic. The man was shaking hard enough for Ike to see the fat strips on his back jiggle.
Pelly continued. "I am also a businessman, so I can see what he wants. He would prefer I pay him five hundred American dollars to find out where our crate is and who took it. He knows that involving the local police in a murder investigation doesn't help me or him." He looked at the mechanic. "¿És verdad?" Then he translated, "Correct, no?"
The mechanic stole a glance at Ike, then stared back at Pelly. "That's right, that's right."
He was panting like a dog on a hot day.
Pelly leveled his gaze at the man. "So who took it?" He rested his hand on the pistol grip.
The mechanic didn't risk being slow with the answer. "Craig Gaines and some of his buddies took the truck. I just paid them fifteen large for it. There weren't no crate or nothing in it when they delivered it."
"And where is Craig Gaines?" Pelly let his hand drop off the gun.
"About four or five blocks over near the railroad tracks." He wiped his sweaty forehead, leaving a smear of black grease. "Fourth house in from the main road. Has a green Camaro out front."
Pelly nodded and smiled. "We will make this deal, my friend."
The man's legs were shaking now.
Pelly kept his placid face. "If we go to Craig Gaines's house and you have warned them, or they are not there, or we do not recover our property, I will make sure you do not see the sunset." Pelly kept his hairy face pleasant. "If we get the crate, we will not say we saw this truck here and you will never see us again. Is this not fair?"
The mechanic nodded furiously.
"Now, do you have any guns here?"
"Why?"
"Because if you do not answer me, I will shoot you."
"In the office. Cabinet behind the desk. Right at eye level."
Pelly looked over at Ike, who scampered past them again and into the office. In the cluttered room, he squeezed past a stack of boxes to get behind the desk and in front of the metal, nicked-up cabinet. He had to jiggle the handle to force open the door. He found a small SIG-Sauer auto pistol in a nylon holster on the shelf, just about his eye level. He grabbed the pistol, then paused. On the same shelf, over to the side, was a wooden crate without a top. Set inside like eggs in a carton were six old-style grenades like the ones in an old John Wayne war movie. He slid out the small crate and tucked it under one arm, then hurried out to Pelly.
"I found something extra."
"What?"
"Look." He held up the crate of grenades.
Pelly smiled. "Put 'em in the car."
"What about the gun?"
Pelly looked at him. "Keep it. You may need it." He looked at the mechanic. "No calls or travel for the next two hours. Understand?"
"I do, I do, sir, and thank you."
Pelly turned, and Ike fell into step with him.
Pelly said, "You see, money can solve a lot of problems and save a lot of trouble."
Ike said, "But he knew you'd shoot him if you had to. Even I could tell that."
"He better hope we get the crate and the boss doesn't come talk to him. Then he'll wish he'd only be shot."
The pretty analyst, Jan Stern, had come up not only with five possibilities for "Ike" Floyd, but with their driver's license photos as well. Now Duarte was on his way back out to Gretna to have Cal Linley point out the man to whom he'd given the crate from the container.
Duarte had thought he could eliminate two men from the list. One was in his forties, older than Linley had described, and one had a funny eye placed way over on the right side of his head. Duarte thought Linley would have mentioned that if the man he had dealt with looked like that. But he had to be sure, so he turned his rented Taurus down Linley's street, then slowed.
There was a mass of emergency vehicles in front of the little house.
He parked and wandered to the edge of the crime-scene tape. He showed his ID to a uniformed officer standing next to the tape. "What's going on?"
The younger, thick-necked cop said, "Someone found a dead guy inside."
"Cal Linley?"
"Think so. You know him?"
"Sort of." Duarte knew he'd have to let the lead homicide detective know that he'd talked to him. He wondered what the chances were of this murder being unrelated to his case. Just about zero, he figured.
Right now all he had was one name in Omaha. He knew where he was headed.
27
PELLY PREFERRED HAVING THE DULLARD AMERICAN, IKE, IN THE front seat with him as he drove around Layfaette. He was an idiot, but he wasn't constantly putting on an act or ordering Pelly around. Now with the boss in the car and Ike stuck in the backseat, Pelly once again had to take directions to a house he had already been past. It was like having a wife.
He took the Impala past the house slowly, noticing the activity. Obviously the mechanic had not made a call. One young man sat on the front porch in a faded plastic chair, sipping a beer. Another man leaned into the hood of a green car in the grass of the front yard. It looked like two more people were inside.
"Good, Pelly, good," Staub said, like he was watching a porno movie. "I'm impressed how you found them."
"They may not have the crate."
"But they'll tell us where it is."
"How can you be so sure?"
His employer just chuckled.
Pelly knew the boss was going to use his own means to question these men, whether they were efficient or not. He looked over his shoulder and saw the fear on Ike's face. For a tough-looking guy, he didn't seem to have much stomach for violence. He looked sick right now.
Pelly said to the passenger in the rear, "Ike, when we pull around and stop, you can watch the car."
The American spoke right up. "No, no. I'll go in. I want to make sure they tell you the truth." He added, "Can I bring a grenade?"
Pelly shook his head and pulled the car around and parked directly in front of the house, still attracting no attention. He had his Beretta in his waistband. He'd save the grenades for later.
The three men headed up the front walkway. Pelly was alert to an ambush, but so far the man at the car had not looked up and the man drinking a beer had only nodded to them. Pelly had been on many raids with the national police and had a good sense of when things were not as they appeared. These men were so complacent he thought it was a trap at first. Then he realized they were just Americans and so used to security that they took it for granted.
The man on the porch let the front legs of the chair he was leaning back in touch the ground. "You don't look like no cops."
Pelly would've gotten right to the point, but Staub said, "No, my friend. We are here to chat."
"Chat?"
"That's right, chat with you young men." He looked back at Ike, whose eyes were nervously darting from the porch to the windows. Staub said, "Do you recognize anyone?"
Ike shook his head, then said to the man, "Is Craig here?"
Pelly wondered: If Ike had been ambushed and had had to fight off several attackers, how had he gotten the man's name? Perhaps he'd gotten it from the mechanic, but now Pelly was curious.