The man who opened the door was past fifty. His dark hair was shoulder-length and streaked with gray. He wore a full mustache beneath a hooked nose. His smile was friendly. He seemed slightly off center. In the manner, Trent thought, of an absent-minded professor. He wore jeans and a very old and worn tan work shirt with a patch over the pocket monogramed with his name.
As he led them into the house, a woman about the same age but very stylishly attired appeared from somewhere.
“Ross, I can’t believe you’re greeting guests wearing that old shirt,” she said, sounding exasperated.
“Sherry, it’s my favorite shirt,” he said. “It’s comfortable.”
“It’s the shirt he was issued in his first job, delivering refrigerators or something,” the woman said, shaking her head but giving him a kiss on the cheek even as she reprimanded him. “Hi, I’m Sherry Brown.”
Trent and Christopher introduced themselves. No one mentioned that Christopher was a cop.
“I’m off to pick up our grandsons,” she told Brown. “Don’t forget your mother is making dinner this evening. And you have to change your shirt before we go.”
“Yes, dear,” Brown replied as his wife swirled out the door. He grinned at his guests. “That’s how you stay married for thirty years.”
The newlywed in the room made a mental note.
Brown led them downstairs to his basement workshop. The place he liked to spend most of his time. Trent was awed to be there. He knew the work Brown had done years ago in his basement laid the groundwork for the technology explosion that was to come.
“How can I help you guys?” Brown questioned.
Brown held the highest security clearance offered by the United States government. Trent and Christopher held nothing back.
Christopher briefed him on the alliance among the four criminal organizations. He told the tech wizard how the alliance had increased the profits to the four partners and allowed them legal access to more of those profits. At the same time the other major crime organizations not included in the alliance were being weakened. They were in a serious situation. A war among these organizations could break out at most any time. If that happened, Christopher told Brown, he was not sure the police resources in the Bay area could handle it.
Trent said he was beginning to have a rudimentary understanding of how the alliance was formed and how it operated. He reported on his recent meetings with British, French, and Italian police agencies, and with Interpol.
What he heard in Europe fit with what Christopher had learned. He told Brown he was now focused on figuring out how the group was moving money quickly, in large amounts, with apparently small risk. He said he had some ideas but there was more work to be done.
“This is all very interesting,” Brown said. “Very interesting. But where do I come in? This isn’t exactly the kind of thing I have much experience with.”
Trent smiled. Brown just gave him the perfect opening for the fillip he was holding in reserve.
“When we get this thing figured out, we need someone to help us play a little trick on the bad guys. We need someone who can create the ultimate computer game.”
Brown’s mustache quivered as he grinned.
“That I can do.”
Christopher noticed Trent rubbing his knees as they talked to Brown. He noticed Trent moving slowly, leaning heavily on the bannister, as they walked up the stairs leading from the basement.
Outside Trent stopped for a moment before walking toward the car.
“Are you all right?” Christopher asked.
“My knees,” Trent replied, breathlessly. “Hurting badly.”
“Lean on me. Let me help you walk to the car.”
“No!” Trent exclaimed with alarm. “Don’t let anyone see me weakening. Let me catch my breath. Pretend we’re talking.”
“We don’t have to pretend. We are talking.”
Trent laughed as though Christopher had told him a very funny joke. The cop managed a smile, which dimmed as he watched Trent start toward the car. He was walking slowly, but with no noticeable limp. Christopher knew he was making a great effort.
“Have you ever driven one of these, Christopher?” Trent asked as he tossed the remote key to his companion. “Why don’t you give it a try?’
Trent climbed in on the passenger side, grimacing as he swung his legs painfully into the car.
“I’d love to. Thanks.” Christopher managed a strained smile as he caught the key.
Once they were back on the highway, Trent told Christopher the whole story. The mysterious bug. The symptoms that were beginning to show up. Everything.
“The doctors don’t know exactly what this thing is. They don’t have a cure. They pump me full of antibiotics and tell me they’re trying to find a cure.”
“Is there anything I can do?” Christopher asked.
“Not a thing. Look out for yourself. I know you have my back. I’ll do my best to have yours. It’s only fair that you know there might be a time when I can’t hold up my end of the deal.”
“You’ll beat this thing, Trent. You’re a tough guy. You’ll beat it.”
“Yeah, I’m tough, all right. But I don’t know, Christopher,” he said. “I might not be tough enough this time.”
“Well, get tougher then. You have people counting on you.”
“You’re right. I’ll make it. I come from good stock. Did you know I had an ancestor with the Texans at the Alamo?”
“Impressive.”
“It would be,” Trent said, “if he hadn’t been among the small group from Goliad who fought their way into the Alamo.”
Christopher grinned. “I can see you doing that, too.”
Trent laughed.
Bat was envious when he saw Christopher driving the Bentley into the underground garage.
“Hey, Trent, when can I have a turn behind the wheel of that thing?”
“Soon, Bat. We’ll take it out together soon.”
“I’ll hold you to that, Trent.”
Trent waved agreement and directed Christopher to his parking space. As they had at the Brown house, Trent walked without apparent impediment to the elevator. Once inside the car, he slumped heavily against the wall.
He had called Darcey from the car. She met them at the door. His painful knees had gone about as far as they could go. Christopher and Darcey helped him to the couch. She braced his back with pillows while the big cop gently lifted Trent’s legs onto the cushions.
“I figured you were armed, Trent, but that black ops holster I just brushed my hand across feels pretty big.”
Trent reached under his shirt to pull the Desert Eagle from its holster. He handed it to Christopher.
“A Desert Eagle. Quite a gun. The .44 is legal in California. The .50 caliber isn’t. I assume this must be the .44.”
Neither Trent nor Darcey said a word.
Christopher handed the big weapon back to Trent before reaching beneath his jacket to the smaller semiautomatic holstered on his hip. “Beats my Smith & Wesson M&P Shield.”
“I don’t know about that,” Trent said. “Extended magazine.”
“Yep. Nine rounds.”
“I’d go into a fight with that weapon.”
“How about you, Darcey? Are you armed, too?” Christopher asked.
“I have a weapon. Not on me but here at home.”
“What kind of weapon?”
“You might be better off not asking, Christopher,” Trent said.
“You want me to get the two of you into a shooting range but you don’t want me to know what you’ll be shooting,” the cop shook his head. Then he laughed. “You’d better hang on to this guy, Darcey. You’ll never find another one like him.”
After Christopher left, Darcey lightly massaged Trent’s legs, being especially gentle with his knees. She wished she could take some of his pain into her own body by osmosis. Perhaps to an extent she did. He told her the pain was beginning to ease.
That evening she
marinated some tilapia in soy sauce, white wine, olive oil, ginger and green onions. She steamed the pieces of fish and green onion, warmed the marinade and served it all over rice.
After they ate, Trent walked slowly out to the terrace. Darcey poured them each a glass of Merlot and joined him. They enjoyed being together.
It was late. Fully dark inside Burgess’ cheap apartment. He sat in a chair placed midway between the door and the one dirty window. A rickety fire escape led from the window to the alley below.
He didn’t know who was coming. He didn’t know when. He was certain someone would come for him. The baseball bat lay across his legs. A duffel bag holding his few possessions was by his feet.
He heard the noise at 1:15 in the morning. A good hour from their perspective, he thought. They assumed he would be drunk. Passed out at that hour.
The noise was loud. A motorcycle. Maybe two. If there were two bikes, maybe Burgess should change his plan. He waited a few minutes longer. He heard the sound he was waiting for. Leather boots on metal steps. The assigned killer was coming up the fire escape.
Moving as quietly and quickly as he could, Burgess picked up the duffel bag, the bat concealed within its folds, grabbing two thin towels on his way out.
In the lobby the night desk clerk, as usual, was sound asleep. Burgess eased out the front door. On the street he went into an act. He became the drunk they expected. He staggered the few feet to the alley, stopping when he saw the man with the two bikes. The lookout.
Horatio saw Burgess at the same time. He was bearded, sleeves tattooed up his arms, a big belly hanging over his belt. He was wearing a black tee shirt and sleeveless denim jacket with his gang colors. Barons of Lucifer.
Horatio was not his real name. It was what his brothers in the gang called him. He knew they were making fun of him by giving him a name that sounded smart. He knew he was not smart. Bonehead was what his father had called him. He didn’t mind that his brothers made fun of him now. He knew they were his friends. He had never had friends before.
Burgess was scared. These guys were bad news. Nobody to mess with. But the ex-cop had nothing to lose. He staggered into the alley, mumbling under his breath.
Horatio watched.
“Get out of here,” he said.
Burgess giggled, pretending to misunderstand. He stepped closer to the lookout. He almost dropped the duffel and looked confused before getting his feet tangled up and tripping himself. He fell directly in front of Horatio. The bearded man tried to draw the pistol in his belt but didn’t have time. Burgess raised himself to a kneeling position, swinging the bat as hard as he could at the lookout’s knees.
With a howl Horatio dropped to the ground, rolling over to clasp his damaged knee caps. Breathing heavily Burgess rose to his feet and brought the bat down again, this time onto the left side of Horatio’s head. Twice. Three times. Horatio collapsed soundlessly. His hands and face turned pale as blood rushed to his injured brain in a hyperemic reaction. The increased blood supply wouldn’t revive the dying brain.
Burgess took the revolver and looked it over. It looked old but well cared for. It wasn’t American made. It looked like the revolvers the French police carried in those Inspector Clouseau movies he used to laugh at.
The revolver’s cylinder swung out to the right for loading. Burgess found six rounds in the cylinder. Small caliber but the weapon was ready.
Quickly searching the man’s pockets he found a dozen more cartridges and a wad of money. He stuffed it all in his own pockets. One of the bikes was fitted with saddle bags. He pulled them off to search later. He tossed the duffel and the saddle bags between two nearby dumpsters.
Opening the gas tanks of both bikes, Burgess dropped the end of a towel into each. He watched as each towel soaked itself with gasoline.
He struck a match from the bar that had been his hangout for the past few months. The gasoline-soaked towel lodged in the fuel tank of the first bike leaped into the flames. Burgess moved as quickly as he could to wedge himself between two dumpsters deeper in the alley.
It took only seconds for the flames to travel down the towel to the main tank. The explosion reverberated off the walls of the enclosed alley, lighting it up like the Fourth of July.
Above his head Burgess heard movement on the fire escape again. This time a voice.
“What’s going on down there, Horatio?” came the voice from the fire escape.
Burgess almost laughed out loud. Horatio! The big ox he had just killed was named Horatio.
The next sound Burgess heard was that of boots rattling down the metal fire escape.
Burgess stepped out from his hiding place long enough to light the second towel ablaze. He ducked out of sight again and cocked the revolver.
The second man came into sight. He was also a big man but unlike Horatio he looked more muscle than fat. His arms were tattooed with sleeves also. His head was bald and tattooed. He looked big and strong and colorful. He carried a rifle in his hands.
Burgess didn’t need the pistol. The second gas tank blew just as the big man landed on the ground. The explosion knocked the man back. He landed against the wall. Hard. A flying shard of metal from the bike pierced his midsection like a lance. He tried to pull the metal out of his body. For a few seconds Burgess feared he would succeed. But he didn’t. His arms fell to his side. His eyes stared straight ahead. They saw nothing.
Burgess tossed the bat into the flames. He picked up the rifle and secured it in the duffel. He knew the alley came out on the next street over and the overweight ex-cop huffed his way in that direction. He could hear sirens but with luck he would be blocks away and unnoticed by the time they arrived.
Saturday, July 30th
The pain in Trent’s knees was gone when he awoke on Saturday morning. The symptoms he had felt so far seemed to be temporary. Short-lived.
Christopher called to tell them he had arranged for the use of a private shooting range on the south side of the city. It was owned and operated by a friend of the detective who owed him a favor. He agreed to close the range to the public for two hours.
They arrived at the address Christopher gave him promptly at eleven o’clock. They knew their tail was following them. Trent figured there would be nothing new for the pair to learn today. They knew he and Darcey were married. They knew he was working with Christopher. The only thing they would learn today was they were armed. They would have to be thickheaded to not have assumed that already.
They met Christopher in the parking lot. Trent was not completely surprised to find Richmond Detective Sergeant Nancy Patrick with him.
Christopher, with a wide, proud grin, confirmed that his relationship with Nancy was good enough to ask for a favor. Nancy said she had already taken care of the matter.
Christopher took them through the retail gun shop to the owner’s office in the rear of the building. There they met Jess Hickok, sitting at his desk beneath a large reproduction photograph of the infamous gunfighter James Butler “Wild Bill” Hickok.
“No relation at all,” the affable shop owner said. “But the customers get a kick out of it.”
Inside the range, Trent was the first to lay his weapon on the shelf in front of his firing position.
Hickok whistled as he saw the Desert Eagle. “That’s a beauty. Mind if I take a look at it?”
“Not at all,” Trent said.
“Say, this is a .50 caliber. Not legal in California.”
Trent didn’t say anything.
“That can’t be right,” Christopher said, casting a steady glare at the gunsmith. “Looks like a .44 to me.”
Hickok caught on quick. “Oh yeah, I see my mistake now. Still it’s a beauty.”
If the Desert Eagle impressed Hickok, his eyes about popped out of his head when Darcey drew the M16 from her gym bag.
Hickok was no fool. “And I know that’s an AR-15 because M16s aren’t legal here. Another beauty.”
Christopher felt a little outclassed when he la
id his Smith & Wesson on the shelf at his position. Even Nancy’s Ruger, with its 15 round magazine, out classed him.
“Say, that Ruger is aluminum. As I recall that means it’s one of the earlier of the P series. Maybe a P-85. They had some safety issues in the beginning but fixed them. Stopped making’em by the end of the century but they’re a good handgun.”
Donning ear protection, the five of them spent the next two hours blasting away at Hickok’s targets. The gunsmith himself even got a chance to try the Desert Eagle and M16.
By the end of their time, Trent was satisfied Darcey could handle the fully automatic weapon if she had to. Christopher was glad she was on their side.
Rossi stared out over his peaceful garden as he lunched on a variety of cheeses. There was Caciocavello, a sharp version of provolone. Gorgonzola Dolce, a sweet version of the strongly flavored cheese. The last was a La Tur, a unique mixture of cow’s milk, giving it a creamy texture; sheep’s milk, providing a buttery element; and goat cheese, adding a tangy quality at the end.
The cheeses he was eating on slices of Italian bread were the only thing satisfying about his day.
First the two men he had assigned to tail Marshall and Booth on Friday reported their failure. They couldn’t keep up with whatever car it was Marshall was driving. If it was helpful, they told Don Rossi, Marshall and Booth dodged them getting onto an interstate that would head them north toward Concord. Or maybe even Modesto.
Then the pair of would-be assassins supplied by his partners, the Barons of Lucifer, had let themselves become the victims. He couldn’t believe they had let that drunken slob of an ex-cop Steve Burgess outsmart them.
He didn’t like to use his own men for such jobs if he could avoid it. But he might have to do that.
Meanwhile, he had other business to attend. He picked up yet another prepaid cell phone and dialed a number
Burgess slept until well past noon. He had checked into another cheap, rundown apartment hotel located on a garbage-strewn block of Eddy Street at the edge of Little Saigon. He registered as John Hudson. He tried to keep his face down so the desk clerk wouldn’t get a good look at him. But the man was half asleep and more than half drunk. He wouldn’t remember what “John Hudson” looked like.
Neighbors and Other Strangers Page 8