Burn Zone

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.

The man on the porch just waved them inside. "Craig is in watching TV or something."

Pelly stepped through the open front door with Staub and Ike behind him.

In the main room a young man and teenaged girl sat on a wide, ratty couch, watching a TV set on top of a coffee table. They didn't even look up from the TV to their visitors. Pelly noticed that they were holding hands. The girl had long brown hair and acne on her cute face. He could relate to that, something that distracted people from how you really looked.

The young man glanced up and casually looked over at the intruders. Pelly noticed that when his eyes fell on Ike, he flinched and then sat up.

Staub smiled, realizing the man recognized Ike. He pulled the pistol Pelly had brought on the Flame of Panama for him. He let the man see the gun, then said, "I believe you have something that belongs to me."

Now the girl jumped at the sight of a man with a gun.

The man stood up and thrust out his hands. "Wait, don't do nothin' crazy."

Staub walked over to him and calmly placed the barrel on the head of the girl sitting next to him. "I assure you it won't be crazy."

The man's eyes darted over to Ike and said, "He tell you how I got the truck?" His voice cracked. Oddly, the girl just looked up at Staub with her big brown eyes, not acknowledging the danger she was in.

The man's voice picked up on the urgency of the situation. Pelly knew he had no idea that his girlfriend had little chance of surviving this.

The man said, "I'll tell you how I got it. I'll tell you everything." He stared at Ike. Pelly noticed his new comrade flushing red in his face. This might be interesting.

Duarte had found a flight from New Orleans first thing in the morning and was on the ground in Omaha, driving a rental car, by nine o'clock. He had not told Félix what was happening for several reasons. One was that the DEA man had become more and more agitated as the death of his informant had eaten at him. He could see it in Félix's manner and the gradual ebbing of his natural good humor. Duarte didn't want to raise false hope in his friend.

The other reason he had not included his friend on the trip was that he didn't want any witnesses. In case he had to resort to his way of questioning, he'd rather not put someone else on the spot. With the death of Linley, the case had taken an ominous turn. He still didn't know what was in the crate, but the possibilities scared him.

By ten, he had eliminated one suspect. Darrel Floyd was a computer programmer who worked from home. Even with his less-than-perfect interviewing skills, Duarte knew the anemic-looking, thirty-five-year-old who was busy playing War Craft on his PC was not involved in anything concerning illegal drugs and murder.

At the apartment of the second man on his list, Duarte got no answer to his knocks. He hated the idea of waiting until the evening, when most people were off work, to talk to the man, but as he left the building, he saw a hand-scrawled note on one door that said "Manager."

A rap on the door brought a short, round woman in her midsixties, wearing a brown muumuu and flip-flops.

She looked Duarte over and said, "We got no vacancies."

He said, "I was looking for one of your tenants."

"Who?"

"Mr. William Floyd."

"Ike? Why you want that moron?"

"I need to talk to him."

"You a cop?"

"Would that surprise you?" He didn't offer any identification.

"Not at all. That boy had a job, but them people he hangs out with, they is trouble."

"What people?"

"Them Nazi or Klan people. Whatever they is callin' themselves nowadays."

"You think he might be over there?"

The lady shrugged her shoulders, and Duarte thought he might know how everyone else felt now. He didn't own the patent on shrugs.

"You know where he works?"

"Nope. Like everyone else in this town, he's some kinda telephone solicitor." She paused, looking down the hall. "You trustworthy?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"I don't know if you're a cop or not, but for twenty bucks I'll let you in his apartment, as long as you don't take nothin'."

He had the twenty in her hand before she could change her mind. He followed her down the narrow hallway to William Floyd's apartment.

Inside the cramped one-bedroom apartment, Duarte checked a pad of paper on a small table with the telephone. The old landlady stayed by the door and watched to make sure he didn't steal anything. He searched a small, one-drawer desk and found a pocket-sized address book. He was about to take it, then remembered his pledge to the old landlady. He turned and held up the black book. "I'll throw in another five bucks if I can take this."

"Done."

He found a brochure for the Omaha chapter of the National Army of White Americans. He held it up and showed the landlady the address. "That around here?"

"'Bout three miles off Forty-second. Maybe ten minutes away."

Duarte nodded and looked around some more. He found a single sheet of paper. Cal Linley's phone number was scrawled on it. There was no doubt now. This was "Ike." For his own good, he better have some answers for Duarte.

He thanked the landlady and got directions to the address on the brochure. Fifteen minutes and two wrong turns later, he was looking at a duplex. One side was quiet, but the other had loud George Thorogood guitar twanging out of the windows. A lanky young man with a shaved head stood by the front door. Duarte doubted he was a chemotherapy patient. One part of him almost hoped these idiots gave him a reason to question them harshly. Either way, he was about to get some answers.