Nemo might not know much about federal law, but he’d watched enough Fox News to know that thanks to a bunch of towel-heads on crack, the Feds routinely locked up terrorism suspects and threw away the key-all without charges or even the benefit of some retard lawyer. So what made Robert Edward Nemo so friggin’ special?
Escalante said, “You’re probably a little wary, Mr. Nemo, and I can understand that. But it turns out the Feds have made some major mistakes in handling this case and the lead investigator has just been relieved of his command.”
“What?” Nemo wasn’t sure he’d heard him right. “Jackass Donovan?”
“I believe his legal name is John,” Escalante said.
Yessss, Nemo thought, feeling a sudden surge of triumph. Make that motherfucker skip recess and stand in a corner.
“Since Agent Donovan is the only eyewitness who can connect you to the Northland First and Trust incident, the Department of Justice is in a bit of a bind.”
Holy Jesus. The ski masks. Nobody but Donovan had seen him without that sweaty-assed ski mask. Thank yoooou, Luther, you big, ugly bastard. The masks had been his idea.
“Needless to say,” Escalante continued, “they’re scrambling to cover their asses.”
“Meaning what?”
“They’re fighting very hard to keep you in custody. Fortunately, the law’s on our side. I don’t think I’ll have much trouble convincing the judge to cut you loose.”
“What about the MP5?” Nemo said.
“The what?”
“The weapon they found.”
“Ahh,” Escalante said, nodding. “It seems their warrant only covered you and not Ms. Devito’s apartment. Any weapons they recovered were the fruits of an illegal search and, as such, can no longer be used as evidence against you.”
“Halle-fuckin-lujah,” Nemo said.
“Don’t start celebrating too soon,” Escalante warned. “You’re not completely out of the woods. If the Feds can put together a strong enough case, you could be back in here as early as tomorrow afternoon.”
Jeez, Nemo thought, that doesn’t leave much of a window. If these idiots were stupid enough to let him out, he didn’t plan on giving them a chance to take it back.
One of the deputies had told him about Alex last night. How the cops had shot him down in cold blood, the stupid twit. That was the thing about Alex. Always letting his ego get the better of him, especially after Sara took her nosedive. Alex had been out of control.
Nemo, on the other hand, was only interested in two things: cash and pussy. And he’d be damned if he’d wind up facedown in a rat-infested train yard all because some rich bitch got her brain fried.
Instead, he’d do what he should have done two months ago and hop a bus to Ensenada. Plenty of pussy there. All those tight little Mexican chochos.
Caliente, baby, caliente.
Now all he needed was cash.
“Well, Mr. Nemo?”
Escalante was unfolding a sheet of paper with official-looking writing all over it. Nemo stared at it, thinking, the guy’s serious. This is the real thing.
“You tell these crank-yankers to get me a pen,” he said, “and I’ll sign whatever you want.”
You think he swallowed it?” Donovan asked.
“Like a twenty-dollar whore,” Waxman said, his voice distorted over the cell line. “He’s being processed as we speak.”
“And you’re sure he didn’t recognize Franky?”
“Even I barely recognized him. Put on a fake beard, glasses, did a whole number on the moron. Cited some bullshit criminal code and even made him sign a waiver-you believe that?” Waxman laughed. “This thing pans out, we’ll have to give Franky another trophy.”
“Or a ticket to Hollywood,” Donovan said.
Despite what Waxman thought, Bobby Nemo was no moron. If they had simply let him go, he was bound to be suspicious, and sending the Chameleon in with an appropriately long-winded cover story was designed to allay those suspicions.
They had discussed coming down hard on Nemo, the way they had before, but if it backfired, if Nemo clammed up this time, then where would they be? Better to make him think he was in control rather than take it from him.
And the next step was key.
Donovan just hoped it would work.
He sat behind the wheel of his sedan, parked across the street from the U.S. Marshals’ office, which occupied the lower floor of the federal building. It was just past 7:30 p.m., and the streetlight above his car was burnt out, offering him an extra layer of darkness as protection.
“You sure you don’t want me along?” Waxman asked.
“I can manage.” It would be hours before the brass figured out what they were up to, but Donovan had decided it was best to err on the side of caution and handle the surveillance duties solo while Waxman played lead agent.
“What about the woman? You talk to her?”
“She’s on board,” Donovan said. “Not that she’s happy about it, but she’ll come through.”
“She’d better or we’re screwed.”
“We’re screwed no matter how you look at it,” Donovan said, then clicked off.
Once word got upstairs that Nemo had been released, about two tons of shit would hit the fan, but neither Donovan nor Waxman had bothered to think that far ahead. They’d weather that storm when it blew in.
Donovan tapped his fingers on the wheel, feeling the jumpiness in his legs, as if an alien life force had crawled into his body and was struggling to take control. His head had started to throb again and he wished he had a couple of Advil and a nice cold Coke to wash them down.
Ten long minutes later, the lobby doors of the federal building swung open and Bobby Nemo and a little guy with a goatee emerged. The Chameleon. Franky Garcia. And Waxman was right, he was barely recognizable.
Garcia handed Nemo a business card along with a few bucks in cash, then shook his hand and headed off toward the parking lot. Nemo kept his eyes on him a moment, then glanced around as if he suspected someone might be watching. Then, turning his attention to the street, he waved a hand at an approaching cab.
The cab sliced across a couple lanes of traffic and pulled to the curb. Nemo jumped in the back, made a gesture, and the cab took off again, tooting its horn as it merged back into traffic.
Here we go, Donovan thought, then started his engine and pulled out.
42
Nemo told the driver to drop him off near the alley behind the Pussy Palace, a narrow strip of urine-streaked asphalt that led to the backstage door. He’d been tempted to have the guy take him straight to the Greyhound station, but there were a couple of snags in that plan.
First, he was horny as all hell. As much as he’d like to save it up for the Mexican hotties, he’d never had a lot of willpower when it came to women. His five-year drought at Danville had been pure torture (he’d never fancied himself a butt pilot), and he’d been making up for it ever since. As far as Nemo was concerned, a day without tang was like a day without sunshine.
Second, the only cash he had on him was the twenty bucks Escalante had given him, and half of that went for the cab. With what was left, he could probably afford a decent sub sandwich and a soda. If he counted pennies.
That was where Carla came in.
Not only was she a Grade A piece of ass, the twenty or so grand he’d managed to pocket during the Northland First amp; Trust heist was stashed in her apartment.
She didn’t know this, of course. Nobody did. Nemo figured if the Feds had found it, either Donovan or the lawyer would’ve mentioned it, but neither had.
After Tina had crashed the news van, he’d always felt a little sick about leaving all that bank loot behind. But when you’re running from the cops, dragging a couple of fifty-pound duffel bags behind you is usually a bad idea. Fortunately, he’d had the foresight to fill his pockets in the vault.