Palmieri reaches into his old bag of tricks

Where we left off: The bullets have started flying at Congressman Falco’s Beverly Hills home. Two thugs are down, and a retired FBI agent has a shoulder full of lead. Meanwhile, inside are two guns and four players, each with his or her own agenda. Oh, and we’ve got a congressman’s wife in possession of a sawed-off shotgun. With Palmieri heading north from Cabo, and Hans and Carmen circling somewhere offstage, things are almost certain to get even wilder.

--

Palmieri was punching numbers into his cellphone even before he got off his plane at LAX. He hated being out of touch. No one picked up at the other end for way too long, and he started to get a bad feeling. Then someone answered but said nothing.

“Who’s there?” Palmieri barked after several seconds of silence.

Hauser, still on his stomach in Falco’s frontyard, grasped the cellphone that he had pulled from the pocket of Goon No. 2. He immediately recognized Palmieri’s voice -- not that it was a big surprise. But he knew that Palmieri would never guess who was on the other end.

Hauser spoke in a hoarse whisper, partly to disguise his voice and partly because of the agonizing bullet wound in his shoulder. “Listen, boss, mission aborted. The feds caught us and forced us to talk. Messed us up bad. They know you’re on your way back from Cabo, and they’re looking for you at the airport. Sorry, boss.” Hauser doubted that Palmieri would buy it, but it was worth a try. At least it might distract him for a while.

Palmieri flipped his phone shut. He didn’t know who the hell that was, but he was positive it wasn’t one of his boys. They knew they’d be dead if they turned on him. But they must be as good as dead for someone else to have their phone. And how did this jerk know he was getting off a plane from Cabo? Well, if word was out, he’d better come up with a plan for getting out of the airport.

He walked into a crowded men’s room and quickly scanned the faces. There -- that guy would do. Palmieri walked up behind a man at the urinal, and tightly grasping the thick Mont Blanc pen in the pocket of his Armani jacket, shoved it into the guy’s back.

“Don’t make a move, sucker, and don’t turn around. Come with me or you’re dead.”

Palmieri marched the guy into the far stall, closed the door and grabbed him around the throat with both hands. The guy fainted fast, probably more from fear than lack of air.

Palmieri could just imagine what the guy thought was going to happen. He shoved the limp body forward onto the can, reached into the guy’s inside coat pocket and pulled out a passport and boarding pass. Palmieri glanced at the photo. This should be good enough to get him through, he decided, pocketing the documents. He could still operate solo when he needed to.

“You’re lucky you didn’t turn around, sucker. You get to wake up,” Palmieri muttered to the still-unconscious (and unzipped) patsy, as he left the stall.

Palmieri blew through customs without a hitch and exited on the lower level, putting on his sunglasses despite the fading sunlight. He wished he had someone to pick him up, but the pickings were getting thin. He moved quickly toward the taxi line.

--

Retired investment banker Nancy Keegan, who has twice been a runner-up, says she is addicted to this contest. “I am now on vacation in Australia and still sending in my entries!”