The Viking Funeral

Chapter 25

EVERYBODY CALLED JOSE Mondragon "Papa Joe." Aside from the house at La Quinta, he also kept a villa at the Ritz-Carlton in Rancho Mirage, where he transacted his business. Tremaine Lane had security duty, but the rest of the Vikings left for the eight o'clock meeting at a little past six. They stopped on the way to pick up some food and new clothes, parking the motor home in a pay lot in Palm Desert. Then Jody doled out some money that Papa Joe had given him to buy the scruffy unit a more terrain-friendly wardrobe.

Shane wandered the shopping malls with Jody, but eventually they split up and he found himself at Don Vincent's Store for Men, on North Palm Canyon Drive. He selected a lightweight blue blazer, gray slacks, and a pale-blue shirt with a white collar, along with new underwear, socks, and shoes; then he rolled up his old clothes and put them in the store bag. Shane was just coming out of the dressing room when he was stopped in his tracks by a rayon nightmare. Lounging in a nearby chair, dressed in a new shimmering mint-green shirt, which stretched ominously across his overdeveloped chest, was Victory Smith.

"Hey, Scully," the huge weight lifter said. "Two hours I been wandering in these stores buyin' stuff, but I ain't happy, man."

"It ain't easy bein' green."

"Rod was my home slice. He and I rolled up scumbags together for two years in SWAT. I loved that guy. Because of you, he got dusted, an' it's pissing me off."

"Whatta you want from me?" Shane asked, setting down his bag so that both hands were free while feeling the comforting weight of the automatic on his right ankle.

Smith saw him freeing up and smiled: "Hey, dickwad, I'm not gonna try for you in a Palm Desert men's store. Gimme a little credit here."

"I don't want any trouble. Why don't we put this behind us?"

Victory Smith pulled himself to his feet. He had dropped one of the crutches somewhere and was now using only one. He propped it under his left armpit and leaned on it casually. "You know where the abductor canal is?" he said lazily.

"North Michigan, up by Lake Erie."

"Keep the jokes comin', asshole." They glared at each other. "The abductor canal is in the mid-thigh. That's where your slug hit me. You'd be surprised how much really necessary stuff goes through the abductor canal: you got your deep femoral perforation artery-carries blood to your feet; your femoral nerves-fuck with them and they hurt like a bitch. Then y'got all the other abductor muscles-your abductor minimus and magnus; plus a lotta tendons and shit, too numerous to mention. After you shot me, this leg looked like a plate a'spilt spaghetti- a fuckin' mess. Beyond that, my Beaner doctor musta got his license at the Tijuana School of Terminal Agony. How much of this is ever gonna work right again is anybody's guess."

"You trying to tell me something?"

"Just fillin' you in on what happened, Scully; what you did to me." He turned and hopped toward the door, then stopped and swung back. "I got one real bad habit. Even back on the job it kept getting me in trouble. Wanta guess what that was?"

"You fart in squad cars."

Smith ignored the remark. "I'd go outta my way to make things right. Didn't leave no negative balance on the books. Fuck with me an' you got some payback comin'. No exceptions, no reprieves."

"I'll consider myself warned." "It's not a warning. Hot… Sauce," stretching it out, making the nickname sound ridiculous. "No, sir, not a warning." "Then what?"

"A promise, a fact of life. Course, I gotta wait till I'm feeling a little stronger… Couple a'days and I figure these stitches oughta hold. Then, after I see what's left a'my leg, I plan on givin' you my own Viking funeral… Very small event… Just you, me, Rod's ghost, some gasoline, and a match." He turned again and, using his one crutch, hobbled out of the store.

They all met back at the motor home at seven-thirty as agreed, but Smith was late. All of the Vikings except Shane were now dressed like breath mints. Jody had on a plain, light blue, spring-weight sport coat, aqua blue shirt and linen slacks, with a pair of two-tone brown-and-white shoes. He looked like a cartoon gangster. Even Lester Wood had shucked his Western garb in favor of tan slacks and a light-purple shirt. He had a new off-white linen jacket. The rough-out cowboy boots and aviator glasses were all that remained.

Jody studied Shane's conservative attire: "This is the Springs, Hot Sauce."

"I didn't realize we were supposed to dress like Disney characters."

"Where's Smith?" Jody grinned.

They heard the crutch poke-poking along on the sidewalk around the corner from them. Then the massive ex-cop limped into view, and stopped.

"Where you been?" Jody asked.

"Me an' Hot Sauce went shoppin' together."

Jody nodded, not registering the implausibility of that idea. "We gotta get up to Papa Joe's before eight. While I cut the deal with Lisa, you guys hang out by the pool and back me up. Papa Joe says there're only gonna be one or two other people from All-American Tobacco there, so this should only take half an hour. Then we'll find a bar and celebrate."

The Ritz-Carlton Hotel sat on twenty-four landscaped acres in the foothills of the Santa Rosa Mountains, overlooking the Cochella Valley. Jody drove the motor home to the front gate, gave Jose Mondragon's name, and was directed to the Palo Verde villa at the end of a road that skirted the hotel grounds. The view looked across Frank Sinatra Drive into the twinkling lights of Rancho Mirage. The Palo Verde villa, like everything else in Palm Springs, had sweeping arches and Spanish tile, all of it wrapped in flowering bougainvillea.

As they pulled up to the villa, they could hear a band playing swing music somewhere inside. The melody leaked out across the grounds. Valets in red Ritz-Carlton jackets were grabbing the car keys of arriving guests, jumping into the vehicles and running them backward up the drive at breakneck speed to park them in the overflow lot above. The motor home was jamming up traffic, causing a difficult parking problem.

"Half the fuckin' world's here," Victory complained. "I thought this was a private little deal with just one or two tobacco executives."

"So did I," Jody said, getting out of the motor home and handing the keys to the attendant. "Sorry, nobody up at the gate told me this was so tight down here," he said to the valet. "Who are all these people?"

"AAT executives and their wives," the valet answered. "They're having their Western Regional Sales retreat."

"How do we do a deal with all this goin' on?" Victory said as they headed into the villa.

The band called themselves the Majesties-a string quartet, plus piano, drums, and bass. They seemed stuck on forties music, which the mostly gray-haired men and women in dark suits and cocktail dresses danced to energetically. The Spanish-style living room had been emptied of furniture to accommodate the makeshift dance floor.

Jody was gazing down at his pastel outfit with concern. "Shit," he growled, "we look like a buncha ushers at a Mexican wedding."

After a minute the man who had called out to Lisa when Shane was in the pool walked up, and Jody introduced him as Jose Mondragon. As Shane shook hands, he could see that the short, powerfully built man was dripping with pricey accessories; a twenty-thousand-dollar gold Cartier watch peeked out from under diamond-studded French cuffs.

As they released the handshake, Jody patted Shane's shoulder, "Jose, this is my friend Shane I told you about. Of course you remember Victory and Lester."

"Mucho gusto. "Jose shook hands all around, then smiled at Jody. "Con su permiso, por favor. " He smiled, dismissing them curtly as he took Jody's arm and led him off, leaving Shane and the other two Vikings standing there.

"Besame lapinga, asshole," Smith growled. "Since we all know this fucker went to Harvard, why don't he speak English?"

Without inviting him to join them, Smith and Wood moved off, leaving Shane alone.

He pushed into the bar and ordered scotch on the rocks, then wandered slowly through the party, feeling out of place and suddenly very lonely. He desperately missed Alexa and Chooch. Finally, he wandered onto the veranda and leaned against the concrete rail, looking out across the twinkling lights of the valley.

"I liked your swimming outfit better." A rich contralto voice interrupted his thoughts.

Shane turned and once again found himself looking into the remarkable jade-green eyes of Lisa St. Marie. He wondered if she got that color by wearing contacts. She had changed out of her business suit and was now dressed for maximum effect. It was a high-fashion balancing act, teetering precariously between sexy and slutty. Her neckline plunged, her short dress was slit way up one side, all the way to her abductor canal. She had on just enough jewelry to accent her alabaster complexion, but not too much to detract from her eyes. A single pearl rested between her swelling breasts, diamond earrings twinkled from behind shoulder-length wings of honey-blond hair.

"Is it too soon in our relationship to make a personal observation?" she smiled. Her teeth and personality glittered.

Shane didn't feel compelled to answer; she was working hard enough for both of them.

"You have a magnificent tush."

Shane gave her a slow smile. "I'm trying not to get into any trouble with you, Ms. St. Marie."

"I must have made a good first impression. You bothered to find out my name," she enthused, then moved closer to him and slid her right hand through his arm.

He pulled out of her grasp and put out his hand. "I'm Shane." She shook it formally.

"Nice to know you, Shane. Lisa."

"Aren't you supposed to be having a business meeting with Jody right now?"

"I might get around to Jody, but right now I'm more interested in you." She brushed up against him, pressing a breast against his arm.

"You always leave this many skid marks?" Shane asked. "We could both get whiplash. Why don't we start by trying to be friends."

She studied him for almost half a minute while the Majesties switched to "Stardust." Then she kissed the tips of her fingers; this time, instead of wiggling them at him, she gently touched his cheek. "Nobody can resist me for long, Shane." She smiled at him seductively. "Let me get you another drink; then we can get started on our new friendship. Or better still, why don't you keep me company? Come to my meeting with Jody."

Shane finished his drink to buy time. He didn't want to piss off Jody… At least not yet. But this was a heaven-sent opportunity to stand up close and watch the players in this deal. The ice cubes clinked against his teeth. As he set down his glass, he had a strange flashback.

Alexa was standing in his backyard, at the canal house, looking up at Chooch and talking earnestly. Shane's heart froze with the memory, followed by deep pain and intense longing. Then Alexa and Chooch were gone, and Lisa St. Marie remained, frowning at him. She had seen the painful look pass through his eyes.

"Whatever that was, I don't want any," she said.

"I was just remembering something," he muttered.

"Follow me, I'm betting we'll have some fun."

So he followed her… Across the dance floor full of swirling executives and into the bedroom where Jose Mondragon, Jody, and three other men were waiting.