Steve Martini - The Rule of Nine

“I need some help. I’m sorry to call this late, but Sarah’s out on the town.”

“Why didn’t you stop her?” he says.

“I tried. She wouldn’t listen. There’s probably no reason to worry. But I’d feel much better if somebody was close at hand.”

“Understood,” says Herman.

“There’s no need to race down there, but you’re closer than I am. She’s out with a girlfriend, a tall blonde named Jenny. They’re going to have dinner at a restaurant in Old Town, Café Coyote.”

“I know the place.”

“They just left, so it’ll take ’em a while to get there. No need to bust your hump. After that they’re headed to a club in the Gaslamp Quarter, but I’ll take care of that.”

“You sure?” says Herman.

“Yeah, I got it. If you can cover the dinner, just stay with them until they’re in the car. Then you can go home and get some sleep.”

“Okay,” he says. “Call me if you need some help.”

“And, Herman, if you can, try not to crowd them.”

“I never do,” he says.

“If Sarah finds out, she’ll be on the warpath for a month.”

“Gotcha,” he says, and hangs up.

Sarah doesn’t know it but Herman has been her guardian angel on and off for the past five weeks, ever since the FBI pulled out and we came home. He follows her to and from work and keeps an eye on her from a distance whenever she has something going on outside work. Tonight she caught me by surprise. I had no idea she was going out.

I head upstairs, grabbing my briefcase and oxfords as I go. Moving at a quick clip I drop everything on the bed in my room and start to change. In less than a minute my suit jacket, pants, shirt, and tie have joined my oxfords in a heap up near the pillows. I throw on some jeans and a thin navy blue sweatshirt with a hood in case I need it to mask myself from my daughter. I slip on a pair of running shoes, check my watch, and walk to the nightstand.

Inside the top drawer is a two-tone stainless and blued.45 automatic. It’s a Springfield Arms ultracompact, with a three-and-a-half-inch barrel. And contrary to what Sarah might think, it’s not new. Though she’s never seen it before now, I’ve had it for years, ever since she was a little girl. And on one or two occasions I’ve felt the need to keep it close, but always in the office.

Herman is an investigator. He’s had a license to carry for years, though he doesn’t often use it. Harry and I are new to this. Though I’ve done my share of target shooting over the years and at one time did some loading with a friend who had the equipment, I’ve never had a desire for a permit to carry a concealed weapon. Now, in light of what’s happened, and the warning from Thorpe, the county sheriff has issued permits to both of us.

In the last two years, three lawyers in this county have been shot. So far the scorecard is one wounded and two dead. Deterrence is a problem since the sentencing guidelines for shooting a lawyer in this state call for ten minutes of probation to reload while they frame the certificate of merit to be awarded to the shooter by the local prosecutor.

I don’t do divorces, the most dangerous area of law, because I don’t like surprises. Why should I allow some angry husband to pop into my office without warning or even the courtesy of an appointment, and shoot me while I’m behind my desk? If the maggot wants to defend his honor, then give me a pistol and tell him to turn and take five steps so I can shoot the crazed bastard before he gets there.

In criminal law you usually know what you’re dealing with. It’s normally your own client who will jump you, and he’s often confined, for good reason. If he’s not, you probably want to keep your eye on him. You have to figure he wasn’t arrested for good housekeeping.

Of course, you can always draw the odd client, the mental three-headed hydra who opens as Mr. Rogers and shows up a week later playing Darth Vader without the mask, and his friends who insist on testifying the minute Satan releases them from the ninth circle of hell and they can get to your office to prepare their perjury. It happens.

So it’s easy to see how a spirited disagreement can quickly escalate beyond the normal civility of single-fingered hand gestures and four-letter name-calling. The one time I had to pull the gun, I was happy to have it. When somebody leans across my desk with a needle-sharp shank angry over the result in his case and questions the need for my continued existence, it’s comforting to be able to mediate by citing the case of Mr. Springfield pointed at his groin from the kneehole of my desk.

I punch the button on the side of the pistol and check the clip-seven rounds, eight if I want to load a live one in the chamber. The.45 ACP jacketed hollow point is a short, stubby little bullet with enough wallop to make an elephant’s eyes water. It’s designed to spread on impact. So if you have to shoot, you want to hit your target in the mass of the upper body where all the energy will be absorbed. You never want to shoot an idiot in the head where the bullet will pass through the vacuum and kill somebody behind him.

I slam the clip home, pull the slide back, and let it go, chambering the first round, then lower the hammer with my thumb and click on the safety. The pistol fits into a leather fanny pack with Velcroed webbing that I snap around the weapon to hold it in place. Then I zip up the pack and strap the belt around my waist.

Anyone itching for a permit to pack might want to carry a four-pound diving weight in their back pocket for a few days. It’s a good prescription for a cure. The dead weight of the pistol and three loaded clips makes my behind feel as if it’s lost the battle with gravity. No wonder cops all seem to be shrinking. With the load of gizmos on their belts, it’s a wonder they can stand up.

I head toward the stairs and down to my car in the garage.

It was nine o’clock. Thorn was packing his bags, getting ready to pull out of Havana the following morning, headed for his next port of call, when the phone next to the bed rang. Unless it was the front desk, it was trouble. Only two people on his crew knew where he was, and both of them had been told not to call unless it was an emergency.

He dropped the folded shirt into the bag and grabbed the phone. “Hello.”

“Cheeef, is Victor here. We got problem.”

Thorn immediately recognized the voice. Victor Soyev was his procurement man. The Russian was a former army ordnance sergeant who’d found himself without a chair when the music stopped in the Soviet Union. Like many other Russians with an instinct for business, Soyev quickly learned that change can be good. His talent lay in the murky world of international arms trade and its shipping sideline, what Soyev called “special handling” but most normal nations viewed as smuggling.

“Victor, we may be on an open line here.” At times Soyev could be an idiot. It provoked Thorn, but then it probably didn’t matter. The two men had never met, only voices on the phone. Soyev knew Thorn only as Mr. Bell, one of his many aliases, and neither man particularly trusted the other. It was a symbiotic relationship only because it produced money for both.

“Understood. It’s an open line,” said the Russian. “But it was necessary I talk to you.” Thorn was telling him to keep it cryptic in case the Cubans or anybody else was listening in. “Our shipment got diverted.”

“When?”

“Last night. I just found out. Apparently some engine problem. They had to put down in the land of smiles.”

Soyev was telling him that the giant IL-76, a massive four-engine cargo plane carrying one of the critical items, had apparently been forced down in Thailand.