Pipeline

By Gordon Donnell

Michelle Addison’s diploma came from the school of hard knocks. Roller derby had taught her how to fight hard and fight dirty. Neither had prepared her for the consequences of doing the wrong favor for the wrong friend.

Winding up in the crosshairs of a Federal Strike Force investigation was bad enough. She was caught in a scheme to launder a vast hoard of US currency amassed over decades of Middle Eastern graft. The money was a magnet for thieves in a world where treachery and murder were business as usual.

It was definitely the wrong time for the right man to find his way into her life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Oct 31, 2022
• ISBN: 9781663247230

Gordon Donnell

Gordon Donnell is an award winning writer of noir thriller and mystery.

Book preview

Copyright © 2022 Gordon Donnell.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means,

graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by

any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author

except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

iUniverse

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.iuniverse.com

844-349-9409

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in

this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views

expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the

views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

ISBN: 978-1-6632-4719-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6632-4723-0 (e)

iUniverse rev. date:  10/25/2022

CONTENTS

Mickey

The French Connection

Philip

Carmella

Impulse

Strike Force

The Iceman

Gun Slinging 101

Moral Support

Decoy

Quicksand

Confidential Informant

Pipeline

Road Rage

Interrogation

The Roller Girl Who Knew Too Much

The Iceman Cometh

Dear Old Dad

Typhoid Mickey

The French Colonel

London

Only The Paranoid Survive

Get Out of Dodge

Jackpot

The Mexican Colonel

A Falling Out

Junior Varsity Jezebel

The World According to Carmella

The Martyrs

The Money Laundry

Sudden Death

Over The Moon

MICKEY

44609.png

R omantic old Mexico, where soft guitar music drifted on the warm evening breeze and impossibly handsome men made courtly love as only the Latins knew how.

Yeah. Right.

The taxi radio was blaring salsa. I was soaked in sweat. The overweight driver was so terrified of the neighborhood he wouldn’t have put a move on the Playmate of the Month. As soon as he had his fare, he hit the gas and left me standing in front of a hotel no self-respecting cockroach would check into.

A sizzle of electricity lit up random letters in a grubby neon sign and removed any doubt that this was the place. My common sense tried to make itself heard, but I hadn’t come this far just to wimp out. I clamped a lid on my nerves and pushed the door open.

The lobby was ill-lit; narrow and claustrophobic. Random patterns of grime took the place of artwork on the stucco walls. Something that had once been a carpet still clung to the floor in spots, like patches of dirty moss. Behind the reception desk a wrestler was perched on a spindly stool that didn’t look strong enough to support his weight. He took his broken beak out of a gaudy magazine and peered at me. His thick lips managed a half-hearted leer.

Buenos noches, Senorita.

I wasn’t still senorita entirely by choice. The class of guy I wanted to get cozy with usually didn’t want anything to do with me.

Buenos noches, I said. Esta Colonel Guerrero aqui?

The leer vanished. Nombre y apellido, por favor?

Mi nombre es Michelle Addison.

Momento, por favor.

The wrestler climbed down from his stool, waddled through a flimsy curtain of hanging beads and vanished into the dimness beyond.

The odor of forgotten transients lingered on the stifling air, stirred indifferently by a slow-turning ceiling fan. A guy sauntered in from the street. He came to the customers’ side of the desk and started checking me out. At a glance he was more Arab than Latin or Anglo. He was trying to pass for manual labor and not doing it very well. His khaki shirt had wrinkles, but no dirt. His facial scruff was carefully groomed, and he had just enough in the looks department to give him the idea he was a babe magnet.

You’re an American, he said.

His voice sounded like he had some college in his past, but I wasn’t man-hunting at the moment. After four years skating pivot for the Junkyard Roller Girls I was pretty sure I could discourage him if ignoring him didn’t work.

Your Spanish gives it away, he said.

What’s Espanol for get lost?

He probably had a comeback line. Before he had a chance to use it the wrestler returned and ushered me through the curtain of beads.

A couple of local machos were waiting in a hallway, togged out in freshly pressed camouflage. Their armor was clean and new looking. Web slings supported matching assault rifles. One of them opened a door for me.

The room wasn’t large to begin with, and the layers of sandbags against the walls made it even smaller. The only window was barricaded by iron shutters. There was a desk, old and heavy and scarred. The man behind it wasn’t as big or as imposing as I had expected. His fatigue uniform was crisply starched and his grooming would have passed muster in high society. His English pronunciation was better than mine.

Good evening, Miss Addison. I presume you are the one Carmella sent?

Paid was closer to the truth. I mean, sure, I had a misbegotten sense of adventure, but I wouldn’t have made this trip if the Corona Virus crap hadn’t trashed my finances. I handed him the picture.

It was a four by six snapshot of Carmella and me standing side by side. Carmella was tall and elegant. I was tall.

A fond smile played on the Colonel’s lips while he gazed at the picture. He set it aside reluctantly, opened a desk drawer and took out a package. It was wrapped in plain brown paper and tied with kitchen twine.

You must guard this carefully, he warned.

The drama seemed a little over the top. The package was about five by seven. It was thin and light enough for me to button inside my shirt. I hadn’t forgotten the pick-up artist in the lobby.

Is there a back way out of here?

The Colonel rapped some Espanol. One of his machos ushered me out into the hall and opened a door that let me out into an unmistakable fragrance of eau de dumpster. I got my bearings, took the alley at a dead sprint and slowed to a fast walk when I reached the street.

I caught a break. Not only had I deciphered the city map and the bus routes correctly, but there was an actual bus approaching. Just my luck the A/C was running full blast when I climbed aboard. I was shivering by the time I sorted out the fare and found an empty seat next to a stumpy senora.

She started in immediately in mile-a-minute Espanol. It didn’t take long to figure out the sancho she was bitching about was her husband. After that all I needed to keep up my end of the conversation was the occasional sympathetic nod. It was worth the effort. The bus had no shortage of sketchy looking passengers, and I was less likely to be molested if I was hooked up with one of the locals.

Stumpy was on her way downtown to a night job cleaning offices. I was headed for the twenty four hour express company shipping office.

The clerk was no fool. First he made me unwrap the package. It contained only a leather-bound journal, written in Spanish in a flowing feminine hand. Then he gave me a shitload of forms to fill out before I could ship it will-call across the border.

I taxied back to my hotel and checked out. I hoped I could use my return trip ticket to get an immediate flight back to the US. Even if I couldn’t, I was probably safer sacking out in the aeropuerto. It was late morning when I finally de-planed in California and started feeling secure.

I should have known better.

An African-American heavyweight in a TSA uniform ordered me out of the Customs line and took me to a private room. It wasn’t a drug search. She didn’t take me down past my skivvies. She rummaged my back-pack while I got dressed and then took me to another room.

The guy who had tried to pick me up in the hotel in Mexico was waiting there. He showed me an ID that made him an agent of the United States Treasury Department. This time he had reinforcements. A smartly dressed Asian babe who flashed a set of FBI credentials.

It took me a minute to convince myself that panic wouldn’t help my situation. A few of the girls in the roller derby league made a hobby of getting busted in bar fights. I had an idea from them how to handle the police. Look whoever was talking straight in the eye and zip it. You had the right to remain silent. You were a sucker if you didn’t use it.

The two Feds sat me down and tag-teamed me with questions. They knew the Colonel and Carmella were father and daughter. Apparently the family was mixed up in some money laundering scheme. BFD. The only money I cared about was the cash I was getting out of this deal. I had received twenty five bills plus expense money going in. I was due twenty five more when I delivered the package to Carmella.

Being interrogated wasn’t my gig, and it made for an uncomfortable couple of hours. Eventually the Feds ran out of steam and cut me loose with a dire warning about what could happen if I served as a go-between in a scheme to move dirty money. I didn’t doubt them for a second. It was time to collect my cash and eighty-six myself out of whatever load of crap this was.

I had met Carmella when I was doing an exhibition skate in Europe. She was an actress in a travelling show. We were both running hash to make up the difference between reality and what the cheap bastards were paying us. We had done our share of pass-offs. I mean, it wasn’t like we were just a couple of dumb-ass broads trying to get cute.

We set it for the downtown lunch hour rush. Carmella e-mailed me a street map and a time. I window-shopped my way along the sidewalk and watched for her. As she drew abreast we matched strides for no more than a few steps. I slipped her the package, she slipped me an envelope.

I never saw the three dudes close in on us. I heard Carmella’s knife click open. By then one of them had grabbed me by the arm. Reflex kicked in. I spun on the dude and drove my knee up between his legs.

His lungs emptied in an agonized gasp and he went down for the count. The second dude was already down on the sidewalk, holding his mid-section and making hurt noises. Blood was flowing out between his fingers. Carmella was dancing with the third, trying to stick him before he could get the knife away from her.

Never mind that the dude outweighed me by eighty pounds. I was running on a full head of adrenaline. I stepped behind him, grabbed the shoulders of his Raiders jacket, pulled him backward and kicked the back of one knee to jack-knife his leg. He sat down hard on the pavement. The steel toe of my boot in the back of his dreadlocks took the fight out of him.

The whole gig took maybe five seconds. Carmella took off running before any lunch-bound office types could recover from surprise and react. I took off in the other direction.

I was glad to put some distance between us. I mean, sure, we were friends. We had done girls’ night out and like that. It was just that she grew up on the dangerous side of the border. She was a little too quick with a blade to suit me.

I didn’t waste any time wondering who the dudes who jumped us were. Or what made them crazy enough to try it on a busy sidewalk. They were Carmella’s trouble, and her troubles weren’t my troubles. I had my payoff. Roller derby season was starting soon and I was due back on the flat track for first practice on Monday. Time to load my stuff into Henry the Honda and head north. Before any cops got hold of the storefront surveillance camera footage of today’s sidewalk tango.

It was Wednesday when the coach whistled us off the track in the middle of a session. T-man was back. This time he was togged out in a dark suit and a quiet tie and looking very official. If he was expecting anything beyond name, rank and driver’s license number, he was out of luck.

Your Colonel is dead, he told me.

I don’t have any Colonel.

Guerrero. Ambushed and killed on the Durango Highway. Just outside Nuevo Leon.

I felt for Carmella, but I wasn’t about to give T-man any satisfaction. I did a favor for a friend. That’s all. I don’t know about anything else.

Your friend is missing, he said. Her motel room shows signs of a struggle.

That bothered me less than it was intended to. Underneath the classy looks and the fetching smile Carmella was street smart and ripped. A lifetime of men trying to take advantage of her had left her with a vicious streak. If there had been a struggle, the odds were someone else had gotten the short end of it.

The team has a season to prepare for, I told T-man. Do you mind if I get back to practice now?

If he was going to bust me, he would have done it by now.

You could be next, he warned.

I didn’t like being threatened. Okay. Fine. If I’m next, I’m next.

I put my wheels down and headed back on the track. Sometimes I wished I really was as tough as I acted. T-man had rattled me enough to take my head out of the game. As pivot, I was the track captain. The coach spent the rest of practice bitching me out for screwing up.

Things got worse when I arrived home. There was an express package propped against the door. It was addressed in Carmella’s handwriting. The writing was shaky. The journal was inside, along with a note. The note had small, dark splotches on it. I had been banged around enough on the track to know dried blood when I saw it.

The note read: Mickey, it’s all yours now. Don’t blow the whole two mill in one place. Mel.

THE FRENCH

CONNECTION

44609.png

I t was obvious from day one of practice that the whole team had been dogging it in the off-season. That meant supervised gym sessions. Becca was taking most of the heat. She had the nerve and the balance to hold down the jammer slot. If she didn’t get her game together, we would be the Chumpyard Roller Girls . I was sweating blood on the ergo, trying to consolidate as many muscle groups as I could in one shot. When I couldn’t take any more I showered and dragged my butt out to the parking lot.

It was late and it was dark. The shops in the strip mall were closed. There weren’t many cars left. The only things moving were occasional headlights going by out on the boulevard. I blipped the key fob to remind myself where I had parked, trudged over and opened the driver’s door.

That was as far as I got.

The guy was as quick as a cat and just as quiet. All I saw was the flash of a shadow as he came up behind me. He looped an arm around my neck. I ducked my chin just in time to prevent a choke hold. He was a lot stronger than I was. He lifted me off the ground when I tried heel-stomping his feet. Kicking and thrashing for all I was worth only irritated him.

Do not struggle, he rasped. He had liquor on his breath and an accent in his English. You will only be hurt.

Being hurt was a way of life with me. I got my keys between my fingers and tried to lash backward for his eyes. Big mistake. My chin slipped enough for him to get the choke hold he was trying for. The world started tilting and spinning. I felt the fight going out of me.

My surroundings took their time coming back into focus. It dawned on me that I was on my backside on damp asphalt. The struggle was over. The guy was sitting in a crooked sprawl with his back against a newspaper stand. His legs were splayed out in front of him. His head sagged to one side and his eyes held a vacant stare. Becca was standing over him holding her skate bag by the strap.

You okay, Mickey? she asked.

Yeah, I was able to gasp out.

All I had to do to prove it was stand up. I got my feet under me, got a good grip on the car door and gave it my best shot. It took a couple of tries, but I made it all the way to vertical.

You know this creep? Becca asked.

The glow from a distant sodium lamp and the flicker of passing headlights was all I had to go by. Even plopped on his tail the guy looked like bad news. Heavy shoulders sloped away from a bull neck. His face was a mix of Caucasian and who knew what else, thick-featured, mean and stubbled.

No friend of mine, I said.

I tried a couple of steps to test my balance and then made my way over for a closer look. Blood oozing through unkempt hair said the guy had taken a serious head shot from Becca’s skate bag. His leather jacket may have been stylish once, before years of rough wear. I didn’t think it would have a Made In America label. The corner of something in an inside pocket caught my eye. I reached down and got it out with a quick tug.

What’s that? Becca asked.

It’s a passport. I think it’s French.

I thought we were supposed to mug the tourists, Becca said. Not the other way around.

This guy was no tourist. And I didn’t think he was a street tough. He’d had professional fight training of some kind. He must have been waiting in the shadows. Blipping my key fob told him I was coming and where he could intercept me. Okay. Fine. I had screwed up once. That didn’t mean I couldn’t show a little street savvy before things got worse.

We better split, I told Becca. This frog may have friends. Hop in. I’ll ride you to your car.

I got in, stowed the passport in the console and fired the engine. Becca got in the passenger side, still keeping a wary eye on the Frenchman.

What are you going to do with his passport? she asked.

I know a woman in the FBI. She can check it.

I didn’t actually know the FBI Agent who had questioned me when I got back from Mexico. I hadn’t expected, or wanted, to see her again. I remembered her mostly because Amy Rossiter seemed like an odd name for a woman who looked full-on Asian. Next morning I put the passport in an envelope, addressed it to her at the local FBI office and dropped it in the mail on my way to work.

No note or anything. Just the passport. Maybe it would