Czechmate

by Seth Harwood

  He knows he’s come a hell of a long way, pulled himself up from those bad times, and that even with Clarence talking shit, he’s still better off than he was a few years ago. He’ll get himself through this.

  “What will they do? Bury my acting career?”

  Gannon grunts. “Huh?”

  “Yeah. Now I’ll never get Steven Spielberg to return my calls.”

  “Ha, Jack. Very funny.”

  Niki shakes his head. “You are fucked, Palms.”

  Jack sits up straight. “You guys aren’t worried about my acting career? What’s wrong with you? Don’t tell me you’re giving up on Shake It Up.”

  Neither of them says anything as Jack waits for a response. When none comes, he says, “You guys are too serious. If you can’t laugh at a time like this, then when can you laugh? So I’m fucked. What happens now?”

  “Ha, Jack,” Gannon says. “I’m laughing. Does that make you feel better? Very ha.”

  “A little.”

  Jack sees Vlade at the door of the bedroom. His face looks grave, but serious, and Jack knows he’ll be able to count on Vlade, his top Czech, to help him steer through this. Vlade will have some kind of plan.

  “Gotta go,” Jack says. “Any last ideas?”

  “Two things,” Gannon says. “We work Tom as an angle; I try to get him to come out against Clarence. And we get Akakievich’s fucking list. We link up Tom, Clarence, and the mayor with the girls, with Alexi, and we bust this thing wide open. We take the city apart from the ground up.”

  “Akakievich won’t give us shit. Not until he’s ready to take it all down, and everyone with him.”

  She laughs. “Then that’s what we’ll do.”

  7

  Shaw

  Alvin Shaw stands in his garage in the early morning. The sun’s just come up and broken the thin twilight of night, but it’s still cold enough that he can see his breath. Behind him, the rest of the house sleeps: his wife, his two kids. The dog was the only one to get up when he left his bed after the phone call at four a.m. Now she stands next to him wagging her tail, crying softly. She’ll want to go out now, eat, and pee, even though she never goes out this early. To her, when someone else is up, it’s time to start the day. Then she’ll go back to sleep anyway. This is how every day would go for her if she had all her wishes. But she doesn’t and she can join the rest of the world in that.

  “Not today, Maggie. Back to bed, girl.”

  If it were up to Shaw, he’d still be in his own bed, sleeping next to his wife. He’d get up at six and go to the gym for his daily workout—chest and tri’s today. He’d been looking forward to finding out if he can set a new max in his incline bench. But now he stands in the garage, staring out the window, feeling his dog’s tail hit his calf, seeing his breath fog in front of him.

  The call that woke him was from Captain Hobbs, his boss at Walnut Creek, calling to give him the heads up that cops from San Francisco would come looking for him within the hour. Shaw’s never received a call like that, never expected to, but it figures that now he got himself involved with Palms he’d find himself in the shit. Fucking Palms.

  But on the other hand, he’s with Gannon and she’s not wrong. Her husband? Sure. He’s a fuck. But Jane’s OK. He knows this.

  Shaw should’ve put the pieces together and found out more about her background. Sure, in as long as he’s known her, she’s never mentioned a husband, never said anything about someone else in her family being a member of her force, but he should’ve checked. He should’ve known that another Gannon existed in the feds, figured out what he knows now: that Tom Gannon was a Special Ops agent in Desert Storm, originally a Marine sniper, one of the chosen few trained to run missions in Kuwait with the Barrett, who got upped after the conflict and authorized access into Iraq on search and recon. Search and recon and no records of what he actually did. Shaw knows what any former military personnel would: that you don’t need a Barrett M107 to run recon, that you only use it to kill. If he’d thought about it, he’d know mission work like that would leave Tom Gannon with the same problems he has to face himself: trying to lie your way back into civilian life, even as a cop or a fed.

  Shaw shakes his head. All of this only took him one phone call to find out, a simple call to an old buddy who’d never left the Ops, a commander now with his own secrets instead of empty missions and information to be forgotten immediately after it got learned.

  If he’d known this much he’d have guessed that sending Tom into the Top Notch would wind up a disaster, had a clue where to look as soon as the info about the Barrett started coming out. But he didn’t because he only made that call after it was too late. Now he wonders if Jane had a chance to put it together on her own. No, he knows she wouldn’t have; even as it crosses his mind for the first time, he knows Tom would never have told her, just like he’s never told Marlene anything about his runs in South America. Jane Gannon would know nothing about her husband’s work in Iraq or even his training on the big gun.

  And this is why he’s partly glad he’s awake at this hour, ready to go out and handle this himself, in the quiet, instead of through his work on the Walnut Creek PD.

  Shaw pats down his arms, warming himself. Outside, on the quiet street his house sits in the middle of, nothing moves. But soon, he knows, that’s going to change.

  In the back of the garage, he moves the dummy sports shit off his foot locker from the service, spins the dials on the combination lock, and lifts it open. There, in the foam, lie the baby Glock 26 and the Beretta M9. Leave it to a good cop to keep a gun in the house beside his bed, but if he’s leaving his wife and family behind, that one stays where it is. He takes out the Beretta and smells the fresh oil from last weekend’s cleaning and the clean metal parts, feels the cold steel. He tucks the weapon into its shoulder harness, fits that over his arms so the gun fits snug against his chest. The baby Glock he straps into an ankle holster and fastens around his leg. He pats himself down: the black sweater tight and the pants baggy enough to allow him the freedom of movement he needs and to conceal the weapon.

  He stops at the sound of a car outside, still at the end of the block but moving fast. Against the quiet morning, his ears pick it out like an animal would hunt its prey. Only in this case Shaw knows the police are the hunter, and he is the prey. He shuts the locker, locks it, and puts the sports equipment back on top so it looks like no one’s been in it. Then he slips out the side door of the garage and over his side fence into the neighbor’s yard. His feet barely make a sound as he lands in the adjacent backyard, on the short grass. He touches it with his fingers for a moment, sees the wet dew on the toes of his black sneakers, Nikes, and, standing, he rubs the wet between his fingers as he listens to the car behind him stop in front of his house. He hears a police radio from inside it, and as its doors open, he’s around the back side of the house and then over the neighbor’s back fence into the yard behind theirs, one street closer to his station downtown.

  8

  Fastback

  Even wanted by the rest of the police force, the first thing in Shaw’s day is his cardio, as usual. So what if he’s getting it by jogging in stealth mode toward the station, ducking into people’s yards whenever he hears a car approaching, instead of on the treadmill at the gym? Twice he has to outrun someone’s dog, but luckily Walnut Creek’s not the place where you train an attack animal. The two he meets are more friendly than vicious and neither of them has the paw strength to make a strong cut on wet grass.

  So Shaw keeps on toward his destination, which is Jack Palms’s Mustang parked across the street from his police station. Sure, there’s no one who could drive around in an orange-red ‘66 K-code Fastback with bullet holes in the side and not get picked up by the police today, but that’s not a part of his plan. Either driving his own Lincoln or Jack’s Fastback, Shaw won’t get far.

  So it’s time to call in that favor from Mancini Auto Body that he’s had saved away since he h
elped clear them on a false gun charge almost a year ago.

  Sure, their gun had been illegally registered, but with the kind of background these two brothers had, getting a gun legally wasn’t a viable option. And with the protection of their garage at stake, that and the way they handed over the name of their underground weapons dealer for a department surveillance operation—one that ultimately bagged the biggest cache of arms in the county—the Mancini brothers were nobody’s villains, least of all Alvin Shaw’s.

  And a car like Jack’s Fastback, that you do not leave parked outside for the force to impound.

  Shaw figures he’s run about two miles and only has one left to go.

  Jack’s keys rattle in his pocket, the keys he took when Jack into the hospital two nights ago. Not that Jack needed them; not that Jack will be coming out to Walnut Creek anytime soon in his condition. So Shaw took the keys with this mission in mind. OK, well, not exactly this mission—the part about being wanted had never occurred to him—but getting the Fastback back to San Francisco for Jack was what Shaw always intended. Bringing it back, after visiting the Mancinis to get a new paint job and to touch up those bullet holes.

  Shaw approaches the police station from a parallel street, careful to use a quiet side street that no one takes on their way in. Sure, it’s still well before most cops would even think about coming to work, but there’s no sense in being less cautious on account of that. He hugs the house-side of the sidewalks, hanging back behind the trees, and only crosses streets when he sees there are no cars around. In this manner, he works his way to the back of the municipal parking lot across from the station. He’s not taking any chances from here on out. In a low crouch, he moves around the outside of the near-empty lot toward Jack’s car.

  At the front of the lot, he has about a twenty-yard stretch between the vine-covered fence and the car. It’s an open piece of black asphalt across from the police station, probably the last place he should be right now, but that’s not going to stop him. He fingers the keys in his pocket, takes them out, and touches the ground with his fingertips like he used to when he ran track in college. On your marks— He puts his toes into the gravel by the fence. Get set— His butt up in the air, Shaw’s fingers push into the tarmac, his weight bearing down. He knows that twenty yards is way too short for this kind of treatment, that if he really gets into his old fifty-yard stride, he’ll crash head-first into the side of Jack’s car, but why not make this sprint his fastest; it’s the riskiest thing he’s done so far this morning. His breath comes steady and regular, quickened by the jog over but by no means fast. He brings himself back to the moment. Go!

  Shaw dashes across the empty parking spaces toward the car, stays low, taps the door with his hands, and slides his feet to a stop sideways, facing away from the station. He rushes the key into the lock, opens the door staying low, and crawls into the driver’s seat.

  Inside, he leans back, reclines the seat so his head’s not visible above the dash, and catches his breath. The car smells like clean leather and stale cigarettes. That Palms has been smoking in here doesn’t surprise Shaw, the guy’s clearly been dealing with a lot. He’s in way over his head; what Hopkins was thinking putting Jack Palms onto something as big as O’Malley’s murder is anyone’s guess. Unless Hop wanted to set Jack up. From the way he’d told it to Shaw way back before any of this really got going—hard to believe that was only a few weeks back now—he hadn’t liked Palms more than he could throw him.

  Nothing to be done about it now.

  Shaw starts the engine, can’t resist giving it a little rev to hear how the old monster purrs—and it’s a bona fide growl—before he drives it off the lot and around the block. His head barely over the steering wheel, he goes slow, keeping the engine quiet. Once he gets around the corner from the station, he sits up straight, speeds up, careful to keep his eyes open for any cruisers on the empty streets around him. Thank God for the call from Captain Hobbs this morning and the head start; thank God the Mancini brothers do fast work.

  9

  The Man in the Mirror

  Jack stands up, shakes his arm a little to see how much the shoulder still hurts, what he can get away with: not much, but more than yesterday. It looks like Niki was right about the benefits of some quality rest.

  Vlade comes into the bedroom and sits on the bed across from Jack.

  “So you know?” Vlade says.

  “Yeah. When did this come out?”

  “One hour. We let you sleep.” He shrugs. “What could you do?”

  Jack starts to cringe, not sure if the hour would’ve made a difference or not. Maybe he could’ve been long gone by now. “I could’ve run—”

  Vlade stops him with a raised hand. “You run, you make it worse.”

  “Something,” Jack says. “Get my ass out there, tell the press that Clarence is full of shit and sleeping with underage sex slaves. How would that go?”

  Vlade snorts, unimpressed. “You go on the streets, the police take you. The police, Jack. You want to sleep this night in prison?”

  Jack chews his lip. He’s got the bad morning taste in his mouth as if he had too many cigarettes last night, but he can’t remember even having any. Maybe it’s a side effect of the Vicodin. The whiskey? Who knows?

  “You stay, Jack. We fix.”

  Jack’s not sure he can believe Vlade about fixing things, but staying might be the most logical idea in the room. His phone rings again and Jack looks to see who it is. This is when he sees the outside screen, the part that tells you who’s calling, has been crushed, and he remembers this happening in the garage when he tried to tackle Tom Gannon to keep him from his gun. He swears, not liking this turn, but answers it.

  “Jack. Where are you?” It’s Shaw’s voice; Jack breathes a pronounced sigh. He tells Shaw the name of their hotel and its location.

  “There in twenty,” Shaw says. “We need to talk.”

  Jack flips the phone closed and looks at it. Could the FBI tap a police officer’s phone? A cell number? The cops couldn’t, but the FBI? Jack’s not ready to put it past them. He thinks back to his conversation with Gannon, the fact that she asked if anyone knew where he was, but didn’t ask for his location. Even with her bullet hole in him, maybe Jack’s starting to come around to her.

  He takes a deep breath, glad to know Shaw’s on the way. Shaw will definitely have a plan, will know what actions to take and come ready to take them. He won’t let himself get arrested.

  Vlade nods at Jack.

  “Shaw. He’s coming here.”

  Vlade purses his lips like he’s thinking it over, as if he’s not entirely sure this is the best thing that can happen. “Police?” he says, frowning.

  “He’s a cop, a part of this. You saw him on the TV news.”

  “Yes. He is the one with you.” Vlade looks down as if he’s thinking, or like he’s just accepted Shaw. “So he comes.” Vlade stands. “We get ready.”

  He walks out before Jack can say anything else. A part of him feels glad that something’s happening, that he can go along instead of having to lead this one, make any decisions about what to do. Because really, he has no fucking idea.

  Jack looks at Niki, shrugs, and stands up.

  “Breakfast?” Niki asks. “We have in other room toast, juice. You eat.”

  “I will,” Jack says. “But first I have to shower.”

  “Good luck,” Niki says. He takes a black garbage bag off the bedside table and throws it at Jack. “Either you shower in this—” He points toward the bathroom. “Or you use washcloth. Your arm cannot get wet.”

  Jack looks at the bag, imagines getting it around his shoulder and over his head, trying to keep half his chest dry under the water. Sure, he can take a bath, but with Shaw on the way and Vlade ready to move, there’s not enough time.

  “Sponge bath,” Jack says. “Any chance you got some ladies in this place to help me out?”

  Niki shakes his head. He lau
ghs through his nose and turns to leave.

  In the bathroom mirror, Jack looks himself over to assess the damage: his face is pale, ashen, and the night’s pills and alcohol have left dark rings under his eyes. He remembers too many of his dreams, thoughts from the night about being naked in the streets of San Francisco, walking through downtown with his sling on and not a thing else, walking past Freeman, his hand covered in blood, his face frozen in pain, the cop from the Prescott Court basement, Matsumoto, with the hooks in his shoulders, and the man Jack shot outside Tedeschi’s cafe.

  He drops a washcloth into the sink and starts running hot water. His hair’s matted to his head and he needs another shave. The sling comes off easily, but removing his shirt is a bit harder. Carefully, Jack gets both arms out and looks at his chest. There’s a dark purple bruise around the outside edges of the bandage. Other than that, it’s all white tape and gauze. In one part of the gauze, he sees a red spot of dried blood the size of a quarter. He’ll have pain, but not time to deal with it today. The bottle of Vicodin stands at the ready next to his bed on the table. But Jack can’t afford to slow down that much.

  He wrings out the cloth, squeezing out the hot water, and smooths it out over his face.

  He’s going to have to choose one or the other: pain or a little slowing down. And if he’s going out, if there’s a chance people out there might have guns, he can’t afford to slow down.

  Cigarettes. Cigarettes might be the best he can get.

  10

  The Lock and the Load

  When Jack gets out of the bathroom, Shaw’s already in the living room with the others, eating bread with jelly, sitting on the couch and watching TV. He stands when he sees Jack, shakes his head.

  “My motherfucker,” Shaw says, coming toward Jack. Shaw wears a tight black sweater, its form true to his muscled shoulders and arms, and black cargo pants. He’s dressed not to fuck around. Around his shoulders he wears a leather harness that holds his gun. The skull cap’s gone and his head looks clean, like he shaved it that morning. They exchange a three-phased handshake, and Shaw puts Jack’s keys into his hand.