‘Then it looks as if it’s time to pay Mr Brigman a social call,’ Ben said. He drained his whisky and stood up.
‘Right now?’
‘I’m impetuous that way,’ Ben said. ‘Before I go, one small favour.’
‘Name it,’ Tamara said.
‘I don’t think Dwight will mind if I borrow his Smith & Wesson?’
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Tamara’s friend’s description of the Brigman residence had been, if anything, understated. Lit up like a space station in the night and throwing a golden glow beyond its high walls and across its own secluded little Cobalt Coast bay, the towering mansion made the average Columbian drug baron’s pad look like a slum shack. Ben rolled the Jeep to a halt under a stand of palms a hundred yards up the coast road, killed his lights and engine, and watched and listened.
It was after midnight, but it sounded as if the party going on within the walls of Julius T. Brigman’s luxury fortress was just getting into its stride. The music was live Dixieland jazz. As Ben sat watching the huge house, a white Lamborghini came growling up the road, slowed on the approach to the gates and drove into the floodlit courtyard; a guy in a tux climbed out and escorted a sequined blonde towards the entrance, where a pair of square-shouldered goons in dark suits lumbered up to check invites and wave them inside. Why did rich people always seem to think that bodybuilders made good guard dogs?
Ben reached inside the Jeep’s glove box and took out the Highway Patrolman. He flipped out the cylinder, then cradling the revolver in his left hand he dug the six .357 Magnum cartridges from his pocket and slipped them one by one into the clean, oiled chambers. He snicked the cylinder shut, stepped out of the Jeep and slipped the revolver into the waistband of his jeans, so that it sat snugly behind his right hip and was covered by the hem of his shirt. He bleeped the Jeep’s locks and started strolling up the road towards the house. As he approached the gate, a swoopy bright orange Panther De Ville glided by and drove inside ahead of him. It parked outside the house and another glammed-up party couple stepped out.
Watching the security goons do their job, Ben wondered if they were the same two gorillas Brigman had taken with him for backup when he’d paid Nick his visit back in November. A slightly superior subspecies of thug, compared to the cut-price specimens who’d been sent to confront Ben outside the hotel. Considering the guy’s obvious wealth, Ben found it a little insulting.
The gorillas went through their paces one more time as Ben approached the entrance. They could have been twins. Identical outfits, identical buzz-cuts; and they obviously both spent the same number of hours working out in the gym. They looked like they’d been practising their scowls in the mirror together. Maybe they injected each other’s backsides with steroids, too.
‘Whoa,’ said one, blocking Ben’s way with his palm. ‘Invite. Let’s have it.’
‘I don’t need an invitation,’ Ben said.
The second security guy grinned evilly and folded his arms across his chest. He could barely touch his hands together in front of him. ‘Yeah? How you figure that?’
‘Because there’s nobody to stop me from walking right in this door. Unless they want their teeth shoved down their throats.’
Ben didn’t have time to hang around waiting for a reaction. He’d taken two steps towards the entrance before the first gorilla made a lunge for him. The musclebound arm was so slow-moving that Ben could have lit a cigarette in the time it took to reach him. He trapped the guy’s porky wrist. Twisted it up and round, hard and fast, into a modified Aikido lock that he knew from personal experience felt like having your arm sheared off at the shoulder with a blunt blade.
The gorilla let out a shrill wail. Ben twisted the arm a little harder, then sent the guy cannoning into his associate and the two of them went crashing to the ground.
‘Lay off the ’roids, boys. Pretty soon you won’t be able to move at all.’ Ben stepped past the floundering bodies and into the entrance. In moments, he was mingling with the party crowd and heading towards an archway that led through to the inner courtyard. On a podium to one side, the Dixieland jazz ensemble was crowing happily away while couples danced. Waitresses dressed like Hugh Hefner playmates circulated, serving champagne from silver trays.
Ben walked into the middle of the courtyard, gaining a few odd glances from people noticing his informal attire. He collared the first fat fuck in a tux who dared to stare at him, and said loudly, ‘I’m looking for Julius Brigman.’
The music faltered. The animated buzz of conversation dropped down several notches and the crowd edged away.
‘I’m Brigman,’ said a Texan drawl behind him. ‘Who the hell are you?’
Ben turned to see a short man pushing his way towards him through the crowd. Brigman was about sixty-five, in a tailored smoking jacket that managed to contain his bulk elegantly. He had white slicked-back hair and a closely-trimmed white beard, and there was a five-inch stump of a Havana clenched between his teeth. The effect was Old Southern Aristocracy. A latter-day Robert E. Lee.
‘Someone who’d like to have a word in private,’ Ben said, letting go of the other man, who quickly moved away, straightening his collar and muttering indignantly, ‘That guy’s nuts.’
Brigman’s eyes bulged. He puffed cigar smoke in Ben’s face. ‘You’ve got one hell of a nerve, walking into my home and demanding to talk to me. You know who I am, son?’
‘Maybe you’d rather have this conversation in front of all these people?’ Ben said.
Brigman stared a moment longer, then he plucked the Havana from his mouth, rolled it between his fingers and smiled. ‘Okay, you bought yourself exactly one minute. Come with me.’
The muttering crowd parted to let them through as Brigman led him down a corridor of archways and into the cool, plant-filled interior of his palace. ‘In here,’ he said, opening a door onto a plush salon.
There was a gasp from inside as a couple who’d strayed from the party straightened themselves up suddenly on a divan and looked round.
‘Clarissa, honey, this gentleman and I have some business to discuss,’ Brigman said.
Clarissa hitched up the strap of her dress and led her red-faced beau away by the hand, her high heels clicking on the marble. On her way out of the room she flicked a look at Ben and gave him a coy little smile.
Brigman shut the door behind her and turned to Ben. ‘I don’t believe I had the pleasure of being introduced to you, sir.’
‘It doesn’t matter who I am,’ Ben said. ‘What matters is what happened to my friend Nick Chapman.’
Brigman’s cigar had gone out. He made a show of relighting it, puffed a great pall of smoke and said, ‘Now, are we talking about the same Nick Chapman who didn’t have the guts to face life, or the decency to check out alone someplace with a quart of Jack and a sixgun?’
Ben slipped his hand up to his right hip and drew the Highway Patrolman out from his waistband. ‘Like this one?’
Brigman’s eyes flicked to the revolver, but he didn’t seem unduly disturbed by its presence. ‘That supposed to scare me?’
‘I have a problem,’ Ben said. ‘Because I don’t believe my friend crashed his own aircraft. I think someone else is responsible for his death, and the deaths of all those people.’
‘And you’ve come here looking for someone to pin it on,’ Brigman said.
‘You could make it easy for yourself,’ Ben said. ‘Tell me how you did it.’
‘Should I call my attorney or the boys downstairs? I just have to click my fingers and they’ll bust your head sure and good.’
‘If you’re talking about Abbot and Costello on the gate, I think you’ll find they’ve already seen enough of me,’ Ben said. ‘As for the rest of the boys, you might want to call the hospital.’