To the rescue of Second Harvest Enterprises came a consortium of business men and private citizens, who stated only that they wished to use the property for "company events." The sellers asked no questions, happily accepted an offer half the market value of the buildings alone, and quietly left with their money. The new owners didn't bother to change the name of the complex, though they did invest heavily in a state of the art security system and established a permanently staffed guard station on the premises. The good people of Sizemore, sorry to see the shit-eaters go, found any overtures to the new tenants quickly and decisively rebuffed, usually at gunpoint. They couldn't quite complain, however, when several times a year sharply dressed men and women poured off the highway from the private airstrip down the road, bought up everything in sight, and headed out to the former spa. The new guests were particularly fond of anything with local color, and the sale of curios, knickknacks, and "authentic Indian artifacts" skyrocketed. In the end, it was a pretty agreeable arrangement all around.
From where I sat in the window of the burger joint, thinking from the taste of the food that I'd accidentally thrown away the meal and was munching on the wrapping, I could see that the entrepreneurial spirit in Sizemore was in full swing. Indian blankets – manufactured no doubt in Taiwan – hung from racks set up in front of the gas station, and a collection of bleached cow skulls were artfully arranged under a tent in the parking lot of the truck stop next door. The burger joint, I noticed, had broken with franchise standards to offer the "Big Chief Whopper Meal" and "Buffalo-Sized Shakes." I'd settled for the white bread menu, cautiously, and was beginning to regret even that.
As I was finishing up the last bites of my flavored cardboard, a big black Cadillac sedan rolled to a stop in the parking lot and a collection of walking stereotypes climbed out. Watching them head inside, squinting in the bright sun even behind dark sunglasses, I wondered if they had any idea how much they advertised just what they were. They might just as well have been wearing nametags reading "HI, I'M WITH THE MOB." When one of the guys in the train caught my eye and I noticed the pistol-shaped bulge under his suit coat, I decided to keep all my clever observations and witticisms to myself.
Facing the window, my back to the entourage, I could hear them ordering in loud, east coast accents every themed item on the menu. The store manager, personally taking their orders and shouting them back to the guys staffing the grill, was obviously thrilled.
"So, you wanna eat it here, or head on up to the place?" I heard one of suits say to the others when confronted with the question of Here or To Go.
"I don't know," another answered. "Whatta you wanna do?"
"I wouldn't a asked ya if I knew, would I?"
"Oh, no we don't," came a third voice, a woman's this time, "we're not doing this again. Shit, it's like eating out with the Bowery Boys every time we stop. Jesus." I heard her sigh deeply and then add, "Let's just eat here, alright? We don't want to get there too early, anyhow. Makes us look desperate."
"Right," the first voice answered. "Just what I was thinking."
"I was going to say that," the second voice said eagerly. "Makes us look desperate."
"Jesus," the woman said. "How do you two get dressed in the morning?" I'd begun to wonder the same thing.
This being the middle of nowhere, and Arizona to boot, the tables all had little disposable ashtrays on them, those flimsy aluminum Frisbees that used to be stacked like communion wafers in every fast food joint worthy of the name. Never one to pass up a chance to smoke indoors, I pulled a cigarette from my pocket, lit it, and settled back to enjoy the show.
Their food ready to roll, the trio carried their trays to a table a few jumps away from mine and settled in to make do with their meals. I waited patiently, hoping to hear something useful from them before heading out. You never know what mobsters might let slip while enjoying a tasty burger, and I'm always primed for new material. Instead of conversation, though, I was greeted only with the sounds of chairs scuffing across the linoleum, and then contented chewing and gulping. I was glad I'd already finished.
"Hey," came a gruff voice at my elbow, and I almost started right out of my seat. I turned, trying for casual, and looked up into the wide face of one of the two men. "You done with that?" He jabbed a fat finger, heavy with gold, at the table in front of me.
"I-I…" I stammered, losing all cool. "I was just smoking…" I surprised myself; I'm usually good with gangsters.
"Nah, sparky," he said, his eyebrows knitted. "Your salt. You done with it?"
I looked from the bruiser to the salt shaker and back again. Then I nodded absently and felt the breeze as his arm shot past me to retrieve the shaker.
"Thanks," he called over his shoulder, heading back to his table. I heard him mutter something like "Spaz" under his breath, but couldn't be sure.
It wasn't until the woman spoke that I realized I was still staring at their group. The eating habits of the other guy were leaving me spellbound.
"You here for the auction?" the woman said a second time, more slowly this time and with emphasis. Suddenly I was the baffled foreigner, or the escaped mental patient.
"Yeah," I answered casually, treating her to a Louisiana accent. "Just got in a while back. In from N'Orleans, you know."
"New Orleans," she repeated, animated. "I love New Orleans."
"Really," I said, pushing my chair back and climbing to my feet, never breaking eye contact. "Which parts?" I had a real opportunity here, even after choking a second before, and didn't want to lose it.
"Oh," she said, apologetically, "I've never been. But I've heard a lot of nice things, and it always looks good in movies."
"James Bond," the monkey on the left said, dribbling sauce down his chin, "that was cool."
"Right, right," the other chimed in, "that crazy funeral thing."
The woman waved them quiet, and then turned back to me. From the obvious cost of her necklace and the way she ordered around the two mooks, I could see that she ranked in her organization. A chief's moll? Or daughter? Or, given the enlightened times, an exec herself?
"Who are you with, Mister…?" She left the sentence hanging in the air, waiting for me to finish for her.
"Cassidy," I answered. "David Cassidy. And I don't suppose I'm with much of anyone, aside from myself." I came up a few feet from her, and offered my hand. "I'm here representing certain interests who would prefer to remain… shall we say, nameless… at this juncture."
She took my hand and smiled.
"Charmed," she said, giving my hand a squeeze. "I'm–"
One of the mooks coughed, theatrically, and a bit of pickle went shooting from between his teeth to hit the other one in the neck. The other, ignoring the pickle for the moment, joined his companion in staring with narrowed eyes at the woman, giving her a none-too-subtle message.
"Relax," she told them both, "relax. He knows about the auction already, and he'll get the introductions soon enough." She turned to me. "These functions run best when there's a level of trust involved. Don't you agree, Mr. Cassidy?"
"I certainly do, ma'am," I answered.
"And besides," she answered, turning back to the pair, "if he should try anything, I know the two of you can handle him. Right? Otherwise, why did I even bring you along?"
The two exchanged a quick glance and then, shrugging, returned to their meals.
"Excuse them," the woman said to me, "but I don't pay them for their brains, if you get me."
"I get you," I said evenly.
She took my hand again, in both of hers this time, and smiled.
"I'm Angela Rosetti," she said, pumping my hand. "And that's Benny, and that's Nick." I nodded greetings all around, while the two guys studiously ignored me.
"And who're you with?" I said. "If you don't mind me asking, that is."
"Salvatore," she answered, like I knew who she meant. I did. "I normally just handle our interests on the west coast, SoCal mostly, but I'm the only one in the business with any kind of eye for art so I'm usually tapped to take the auctions."
I nodded. So she was an exec and not just window dressing. Though not the first time I'd met a mob boss in a fast food joint, this was still shaping up nicely. Besides, Louie the Neck had been nowhere near as nice to look at.
"Anything in particular you're after?" I asked. She sat back down, and motioned for me to pull up a chair.
"Officially, I'm supposed to be looking for Rockwell. It's a long shot, but the boss loves Americana, and you never know what these skells pick up in the way of payment or merchandise. Unofficially, I'm looking for late French expressionism. I'm building a new house in Anaheim, and I've got some wall space to fill." She took a sip of her soda, and then flashed her lashes at me. "And you?" she said. "What are you in the market for, Mr. Cassidy?"
The way she asked, the way she was looking at me, was making my knees quiver, and sent butterflies sumo-wrestling in my gut. I chanced a glance at the muscle, reminded myself why I was there, and plowed ahead.
"Nothing in particular," I answered casually, "though the interests I represent are always on the lookout for antique books." I paused, letting the last word hang in the air, looking for some reaction. None came. "Something of a bibliophile, I suppose you could say," I added, relaxing.
"Hmm," Angela hummed, giving nothing away.
"When we finish up here," she finally said, "we're heading on over. You want to follow us in?"
"Sure," I answered. "I've never been here before, and the directions I got from my principle were a little sketchy."
"Great," she said, clapping her hands. "Maybe then I'll have someone to talk to." She leaned in close, and I got two nostrils' full of her perfume. "There's a certain old world charm to these things, but the conversation is usually for shit. I mean, I can only listen so many times to the story about how Rocky Stompanato took out that whole group of Triads single-handed, or to the one about what Mack Diamond did to that spic he caught in bed with his wife, before it starts to get old. You know what I mean?"
I nodded, trying to smile. I was getting in deep now. Movie stars and pop singers seemed a whole world away.
I followed the limo up the narrow road from Sizemore to the compound in my little rented Ford. Angela had offered to let me ride up with them, but I wanted my ride handy, so politely declined. For a second it looked like she might want to ride with me, but the two mooks stepped in front of that one and ushered her into the waiting limo. They eyed me as I walked back to my Escort, one of them thoughtfully patting the bulge under his arm.
The road dead-ended at the gate which still read "Second Harvest Ranch." There was an electrified gate on rollers in place across the entrance, made of reinforced chain-link and topped with razorwire. From either side stretched a steel-banded fence some ten feet tall, crowned with electrified nettle and razor-wire, with a sentry tower visible a hundred or so yards off to the left and right. I could hear the sounds of guard dogs barking within, and a couple of uniformed thugs with assault rifles made a slow circuit into view as we pulled up, circling the other perimeter of the fence.
The limo driver pulled up to a TV monitor and two-way radio set on a pedestal a yard from the gate, and after a few seconds the gate rattled open to let him in. As soon as his rear wheels had passed inside, a row of barbed spikes popped back out of the pavement, pointing at me like accusatory fingers. I took off the parking brake, and rolled forward, the gate sliding back into place as I came.
The TV monitor flickered on, and a security guard's bored-looking face filled the screen.
"State your name," his voice crackled over the intercom.
"I'm here as proxy for Tan Perrin," I said, leaning out of the window. I felt like I should order fries next.
The voice on the other end of the intercom sighed, and the security guard looked directly into the camera.
"State your name," he repeated automatically.
"Um, Cassidy," I answered, "David Cassidy. But I don't think I'm on your list. Like I said, I'm here as proxy for…"
"I heard you the first time, sir," the guard answered in beleaguered tones. "But I still need your name for my records."
"Okay, you've got it." I didn't want to push too hard, but neither did I want to seem like a pushover. Either way would have sent up red flags, and I didn't know if Tan's name carried enough clout with these people to weather that.
"Yes, I've got it," the guard said, writing on something out of my line of sight. "And who are you representing?"
"Tan Perrin," I answered, allowing a bit of annoyance to creep into my voice. I was remembering every heavy I'd ever run into and trying to imagine how they might react. "You want I should call him up, see if we can get this worked out?"
The implied threat worked.
"No, no," the guard replied hastily, "that won't be necessary. Mr. Perrin's right here on our list. Looks like he called ahead about you coming, but doesn't look like he gave your name."
"He wasn't sure who'd be available," I answered, sounding pissed, "but if that's a problem for your little dog and pony show here, I'll turn right back around and let him know you don't want his business." I blew a cloud of smoke at the camera lens and added, "It's not like I don't have better things to do with my time, better places to spend my money."
The gate in front of me shuddered and then started to roll open. I saw the barbed spiked just beyond fold back into the ground, and turned back to the monitor.
"Come on in, sir." The guard smiled. "Sorry about the inconvenience."