Free Private Heat by Robert E. Bailey Page A

“I don’t want Randy to get hurt, not like that.”
    â€œYou wanted to give him up for the steroids.”
    â€œI didn’t know that his sergeant was coming. I just wanted to say, you know, ‘See what you did?’ and ‘Take this away.’”
    â€œYou wanted to save your marriage with a divorce? You thought having him thrown out of his house would cure a case of the steroid mean and nasties?”
    â€œI just wanted my old Randy back.” She started working her eyes with her forearm again.
    â€œWe’re way past that,” I said. “The feds see you as their handle on the money and the other players.”
    â€œWayne and I were just trying to get away. I told Randy where I was. I wanted him to come after me. Even if he didn’t love me anymore, he could have got away.”
    When she looked up I pointed a finger, “If your associates, these ‘tough guys,’ whack you right now, they’re home free.”
    â€œIt’s not that simple.”
    â€œSuit yourself,” I said. “Noon, day after tomorrow, I’m done. Then it’s just you and your pals. You can’t go on telling everybody what they want to hear and hope this will go away. You have to pick a side. If you don’t, you end up dead or in jail.”
    â€œUncle Martin said—”
    â€œYour uncle is hiding something. If he wasn’t, you’d be sitting in a safe house right now and under the protection of the United States Marshal Service.”
    â€œUncle Martin is the attorney the city and the county call when they get in trouble.”
    â€œYour Uncle Martin is a civil attorney acting as a criminal counsel for a family member. I don’t have time to explain why or for how many reasons that’s wrong, but I can tell you this: If you live long enough to talk to the U.S. attorney, and they are offering immunity, you tell them everything. Then, maybe, you’ll have a life. And if Randy Talon ever gets over his case of the stupids, maybe, someday, you might have a life with him.”
    The telephone rang.
    â€œThat could be Arnold Fay,” I said. “If you want to talk to him, go ahead. I’m out of here. You gotta get off the fence.” I walked over to my duffel bag and picked it up.
    Karen looked at the telephone and watched it ring. She looked at me and then back at the telephone. It rang again.
    â€œWell?”
    â€œI don’t want to talk to him,” she said.
    â€œHow about the U.S. attorney?”
    â€œI’ll tell.” The telephone rang. “Please,” she sobbed.
    â€œWhy did you call Arnold Fay?”
    The telephone rang. She buried her face in her hands. “He told me to call if you were still here after Randy left.”
    I dropped the bag and hustled to the telephone. “Hi, Arnie,” I said. “Third Ring of Hell, you calling for a reservation?”
    It was Ron and he asked, “Who the hell is Arnie?”
    â€œDrives a green Corvette.”
    â€œGood for him,” said Ron. “Turn on your radio.”
    I fished my radio out from under the sofa cushion and turned it on. “Five-seven, this is five-six, radio check, over.”
    â€œThis is five-seven,” said Ron. “I hear you, Lima-Charlie. Where have you been? I was starting to worry.”
    â€œWe had some things to sort out here.”
    â€œOur friends in the red Escort cruised you as soon as it got dark. One of them did something to the left side of your car.”
    â€œThey still surveilling this location?”
    â€œNegative that.”
    â€œStand by,” I said and went outside. I found my vehicle listing hard to port. “Both driver’s side tires are flat—performance tires, two hundred bucks apiece.”
    â€œThat’s felony malicious destruction of property in this state. You want to call the heat?” said Ron. “I have video.”
    â€œNo. I don’t want to give you