Santa Fe Edge

25

The following morning Barbara called Bart Cross’s cell number.

“This is Bart,” he drawled.

“We last met in Yuma,” Barbara said.

It took him a moment. “Oh, yeah. How are you?”

“Lunch today.” She gave him the name and address of a restaurant on the Santa Monica waterfront. “One o’clock sharp,” she said.

“Uh, okay.”

She hung up. She spent the morning shopping in Santa Monica, especially in a bookshop, where she bought a fairly large-scale map of Santa Fe. Then she went to a RadioShack and bought two prepaid cell phones. Back in the car, she opened the map and marked her rental house and Ed Eagle’s house. Then she put on her blond wig and made herself up in an overdone fashion with lots of eye shadow.

AT ONE O’CLOCK, she watched from a distance as Bart arrived at the restaurant and got a table outside. When he was settled she walked over and sat down. “I won’t be here long,” she said, “so listen carefully.” She placed an envelope on the table. “I’ll be blunt,” she said. “I want two people killed: They’ll be together. I’ll pay you twenty-five thousand dollars for the job, and another five thousand for expenses. There’s ten thousand in this envelope, and the rest will be paid when the work is done. Do you want the job? If not, say so now, and I’ll be gone.”

Bart lifted the flap of the envelope and peeked inside. “Yes,” he said.

“The man is in Santa Fe. His name is Ed Eagle, and he’s a lawyer. He cheated me out of a lot of money in the settlement of a lawsuit, and I want him dead by the end of the month. Specifically, I want his throat cut. The other is his wife; I don’t care how you kill her.”

“That can be done,” Bart said.

She pushed the folded map and a key across the table. “There are two houses well marked on this map. Don’t open it now. The one on Tano Norte is a guesthouse where you can stay; the other is Eagle’s house. Your best chances are going to be morning around nine when he goes to work, or after dinner when he comes home. You’ll have to watch him for a while to get the lay of the land.”

“All right.”

“I want them both dead, together, and you have eighteen days to do it. After that day, you have to vacate the house. If anyone comes to the door looking for me, say that you sublet the house, paid me in advance, and that I may be in San Francisco.”

“All right.”

“Fly into Double Eagle Airport in Albuquerque, without filing a flight plan, and take a taxi to the big airport.” She placed a car key on the table, along with the parking receipt. “This is for a Mercedes station wagon, tan metallic, which is in long-term parking at Albuquerque Airport. The space number is written on the back of the ticket. When the work is done, park the car as nearly as possible to the same spot, and you can give me the key when we meet for your final payment.”

She gave him one of the two phones. “Memorize this number,” she said, reciting the number of the phone she retained.

“Got it,” he said.

“You are to use this phone to contact me and to avoid making calls on your own phone. You will contact me only if absolutely necessary.”

“Got it.”

“Make no calls from your own cell phone after you leave L.A. Clear?”

“Clear.”

“When you are back in L.A., call me and I’ll arrange to pay you the remainder of your money. After you have it, destroy the cell phone and scatter the pieces. Any questions?”

“No.”

“Call me if you need more information. I’m leaving now. If anyone sees you here with me, tell them I’m a hooker who tried to pick you up. One more thing,” she said. “If they’re both not dead by the eighteenth day, you’re dead.” She got up and walked away.

BART PUT THE MONEY and the map into his inside coat pockets. His heart was beating rapidly. This was a gift from heaven, he thought. He put the prepaid phone in his pocket and got out his own cell phone and dialed a number.

“Yes?”

“It’s Cross.”

“You better have my money.”

“That’s why I’m calling. I can give you the cash whenever you like.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m at a restaurant in Santa Monica.” He gave the man the address.

“I’m five minutes away,” the man said.

Shortly, a car pulled up in front of the restaurant, and a large man got out. He came to the table.

“Sit down,” Bart said.

“I don’t have time.”

“If you want to get paid, sit down.”

The man sat down. “You’re a pain in the ass,” he said.

Bart slid the menu across the table. “The money is under it,” he said. “Put it in your pocket.”

The man did so. “Nice doing business with you,” he said.

“We won’t be doing any more business,” Bart said.

“Fine by me.” The man got up, got in his car and drove away.

The waitress appeared. “Is anyone joining you?” she asked.

“No. I shooed away a hooker, and some guy mistook me for somebody else.” He ordered lunch and sat, basking in the sunshine, feeling great.

BARBARA DROVE BACK to Bel Air, to Jimmy’s house, thinking hard all the way. She had to have a backup plan. There was simply no way she was going to put all her eggs in a basket named Bart Cross.

She was still thinking about it when she walked into the house.

“Hey,” Jimmy called from his study.

She walked into the room and fell into a chair. “I know how early it is, but I need a drink.”

Jimmy got up and made a martini for her. “Here you go.”

“I met with Bart,” she said.

“Everything go all right?” he asked.

“Seemed to. Do you think he has any guts?”

“Guts is something Bart has never been short of,” Jimmy replied. “I saw him take a bigger guy in a bar fight in Long Beach once. Bart was smaller, but he was meaner, too.”

“I hope you’re right,” Barbara replied.

Jimmy shrugged. “Worse come to worse,” he said, “if you want something done right, you have to do it yourself.”

And like that, she had her backup plan.