The bald greeter with the sign called himself Toby and was pleasant enough for someone who might wish Gallen harm. The sun was warm as they walked to the VIP set-down and Gallen knew he’d overdressed with the hooded sweatshirt.
As he reached the Crown Vic, Gallen saw the driver — the same one he’d hit at the motel in Red Butte. Gallen gave him a quick nod of recognition and received a sneer in response.
‘This is Aaron,’ said Toby, indicating Magazine.
‘Hi, Aaron,’ said Gallen, smiling at the anonymous face beneath accountant’s hair. Over Aaron’s shoulder, Winter’s cab was waiting sixty yards down the apron.
‘Don’t mind, do ya?’ said Aaron, moving for a pat-down without Gallen’s consent.
Grabbing the outstretched right hand, Gallen moved his body at Aaron’s, twisting the wrist behind the man’s back as he wrapped his right hand around the back of Aaron’s neck, slamming his unguarded face on the Crown Vic’s hood. Pulling the head back with a handful of hair just before Aaron’s nose made contact, Gallen threw his arm around the man from behind and whipped the handgun from his hip rig.
Pulling back in shock, Aaron slapped at his empty holster.
‘This what you looking for?’ Gallen held the Beretta down at his groin, unclipping the magazine and flipping the loads onto the concrete apron.
‘The fuck?!’ said Aaron.
‘Your question,’ said Gallen, returning the Beretta, stock first.
‘My what?’ said Aaron, mouth hanging open.
‘Answer’s yes — I do mind.’
They moved through the LA traffic, headed north along Sepulveda and then Lincoln. Gallen remembered LA well enough to know that if you avoided the freeways when leaving LAX northbound, then you were probably headed for the beach suburbs of Venice and Santa Monica.
‘You always attack your employers?’ said Aaron, blowing on the rescued 9mm cartridges and reinserting them into the clip.
‘You always touch a man you just met?’
Aaron gave the driver a sideways look, like Who the fuck is this guy?
‘Didn’t touch you, Gallen,’ said Aaron, speaking over his shoulder.
‘Rather my good management than my bad luck.’
Beside him, Toby laughed softly. ‘Five minutes, guys. Hold off five minutes.’
Passing Marina Del Rey Hospital, the driver took a left across traffic and they were wending their way along the canal systems behind Venice Beach.
Pulling into a palm tree-shaded parking lot behind a large apartment complex, the car stopped and Gallen got out, keeping his eyes off the street where he knew Winter would soon be pulling up.
Emerging from an elevator at the third floor, Gallen followed the trio through air-conditioned stucco corridors and into apartment 312. The dark hallway opened into a huge living room that looked over a swimming pool and barbecue area, then over a canal to the white flash of Venice Beach and out to the glistening Pacific. Gallen gaped momentarily: he’d seen this sight on his honeymoon, long ago when his Marines crew had chipped in to buy him a package to Peurto Vallarta; he and Marcia had been hot and tired after delayed flights, and then he’d walked through the condo to the balcony and looked over the Pacific Ocean in the brilliance of early afternoon and he’d been floored. He remembered just standing there, not wanting to speak, amazed that such a sight existed — finally understanding that when people said the Pacific, it was beyond simply a thing.
‘Need a drink, Gerry?’ Toby moved into a large kitchen. ‘Juice? Soda?’
‘Sprite, thanks,’ said Gallen.
Aaron walked onto the sun-bleached balcony where Paul Mulligan sat beneath a Miller beer sun umbrella. Mulligan put his cordless phone to his chest for a second while Aaron spoke, then Aaron came back into the room.
‘You’re up,’ he said, flicking his head.
Moving past him into the heat, Gallen smiled as he patted his pockets. ‘I’d tip you if I had some change.’
Taking a seat in the shade, Gallen drank the Sprite. Mulligan put a hand up to apologise for the phone call and started yelling into his handset. ‘Sevi, I don’t care if your crew’s afraid of the dark, honest to God — that section along the canal has to be recce’d by clearance divers at least once every twenty-four hours and any tampering advised to me immediately, understand?’
Mulligan lit a smoke as the excuses poured in from wherever Sevi was at. Gallen guessed southern Thailand.
‘No, no, no. Listen to me, buddy, and write this down,’ said Mulligan. ‘Pipelines that cost half a billion real US dollars are not assets that we allow to take care of themselves, okay?’
Sevi must have interrupted, because Mulligan sucked on his smoke like he was going to have a heart attack. ‘Are you kidding me, Sevi? Is that it?’
Gallen could hear the other man’s voice pouring out of the cordless.
‘Listen, okay,’ said Mulligan. ‘Look at your contract, Sevi. It stipulates total pipeline coverage for a fifty-mile segment, and that includes the canal section. If you were a bad guy who wanted to destroy Oasis oil flows, you’d probably hit the pipe where it goes underwater, right?’
Mulligan stood, nodding and trying to smile. ‘Okay, Sevi. Good talking as always. I’m transferring you to Aaron and you two can find a couple clearance divers, okay?’ He fiddled with the handset and a phone rang inside the apartment. Mulligan yelled, ‘Aaron! Sevi needs some divers. Just deal with it.’
Sitting again, Mulligan reached over and shook Gallen’s hand. ‘Chrissakes. Sorry, Gerry.’
‘Got a security crew doesn’t like the water?’
‘What is it with soldiers? They see a bit of action, take a bit of shit, and then as soon as they go civvie there’s this list of things they won’t do.’
Gallen smiled. ‘Nothing like taking shit to swear you’ll never do it again.’
Mulligan drank European water from a bottle and eased back in his chair, the dark sunglasses concealing his expression. ‘Got your wish list, Gerry. Looks okay.’
‘They’re all proven.’
‘This Dale,’ said Mulligan. ‘Your gunnie in Afghanistan, right?’
Gallen nodded.
‘Ern Dale’s boy?’
‘Yep,’ said Gallen. Ern Dale was a Vietnam veteran who’d come back to the States, started selling used cars and transformed himself into a multimillionaire with Dale Auto City car lots all over Colorado, Wyoming and Nebraska. Ern Dale called himself the King of Chevrolet and he’d done everything he could to keep his son in college and out of the military.
Mulligan pushed. ‘Those special forces gunnery sergeants are pretty hard boys.’
‘Bren’s a good 2IC. He picks up where I let down.’
Nodding, Mulligan looked out to sea. ‘There’s never the perfect profile for protecting a man.’
Gallen lit a smoke, hunching from habit into a wind that didn’t exist. ‘No?’
Mulligan shook his head. ‘Tried cops, tried ex-SWAT, tried MPs and special forces guys. None of them cover it perfectly.’
‘I see.’
‘Sometimes it’s the bodyguard who needs to be the first to draw and the last to shoot. See what I mean?’
‘I don’t like being touched, Paul,’ said Gallen, a little defensive about the airport scuffle. ‘Tell Aaron to keep his paws to himself.’
‘Aaron pat you down?’ laughed Mulligan. ‘Can he eat solids?’
Gallen looked away, not enjoying the teasing; not ready to laugh at himself so close to the end of his last tour. ‘Just disarmed him…’
‘Hey, Gerry,’ said Mulligan, friendly. ‘I wasn’t talking about you.’
‘No?’
‘No, buddy. It’s this Kenny Winter.’
‘What about him?’