by Seth Harwood
Gannon’s hand moves up and down on his thigh. “We’ll take care of you this time, Jack.”
“All right, cowboy.” Shaw’s voice comes from somewhere below Jack’s feet. Then he hears the outer doors of the ambulance slam closed.
“OK,” the paramedic says, and the ambulance starts to move. Jack feels the first few bumps, then he swallows hard, looks around him, and falls asleep.
50
Bureau Man
Shaw watches Jack’s ambulance pull away through the rough parking lot and navigate between the police cars. When it’s gone a little ways, he turns and walks directly over to the SWAT commander, a guy named Thomas.
“You going to make this stick this time?”
“Talk to him,” Thomas says, pointing toward an older fed in a suit. “This thing’s all federal now. Guy’s been smuggling sex slaves into this country? Oh, this is big shit now. You familiar with the new laws against sex trafficking?”
“Drugs not big enough to put him away, so we got to bring something bigger?”
Thomas shrugs. “I wouldn’t know anything about that. Ask Dockery.”
Shaw looks over at the fed: he’s got thinning hair up top that’s combed back and his face is thin. Shaw can see he’s got a problem with nose hairs from ten feet. “That’s Dockery?” Thomas doesn’t answer, he’s already moving off toward the black van. “Dockery,” Shaw calls out, heading over to the fed.
The suit finishes talking to a couple cops and signs off on something someone passes him on a clipboard. Then he turns to Shaw, smiles widely and says in an even voice, “Yes, Detective. What can I do for you?”
“You Dockery, right? You’re Gannon’s commanding dick?”
Dockery tilts his head and winces at the question. “I’d prefer not to think of it that way. Is there something that I can help you with?”
“Tom Gannon. What you doing about him?”
Dockery nods, spreads his arms to show Shaw his hands. “He’s in custody still. You’ll be glad to know he gave up Franklin Clarence and he was the one who cleared your name this afternoon.”
“You arrest Clarence?”
“No. I’m afraid Clarence has not been apprehended yet. Our best information says he’s left the state.”
“And Jane Gannon? You going to take care of her?”
“We will do whatever she requires. She’s done a good piece of work here on this case.” He reaches out to touch Shaw’s shoulder, but Shaw backs away. “Why so jittery, Detective? I merely wanted to tell you that you’ve done a good job.”
“How about the dozens of fucks on the San Francisco police force who had their dicks in Akakievich’s foreign pussy. What you going to do about them?”
Dockery bites his lower lip. “Maybe you want to sit down?”
Shaw doesn’t move, blink, or take his eyes off Dockery’s.
“We’re hoping to prosecute, but it’ll be hard to make positive identifications on everyone. Nevertheless, I can assure you that we’ll do our best. We’ve also identified three of the men connected to the girls you brought to Agent Gannon’s apartment the other evening.” Dockery offers his hand to Shaw. “That was good work you did.”
“You going after the mayor?”
Dockery moves his head closer to Shaw’s and says in a softer voice, “Are you familiar with the Victims of Trafficking and Violence Protection Act?” Shaw shakes his head. “In short,” Dockery whispers, “it means he’s fucked. If we can get any of these girls to testify against him, shit, if we can even just connect him with their captivity at the hands of these Russians, he will be on the fast part of the downward slide.”
“And the Russians themselves?”
Dockery nods, pushes his lower lip toward his nose. “We connect them with the deaths of the girls who’ve been killed over the past few days, they won’t see the light of day for some time. If ever.” Dockery shakes his head. “Detective, these men have absolutely picked the wrong laws to fuck with.”
The fed’s eyes narrow as he waits for a response from Shaw. His hand’s still extended, waiting for the handshake that he’s not going to get. Instead, he claps Shaw on the elbow and Shaw lets him.
“What about myself and Jack Palms?”
“No question: you two are absolved of any wrongdoing and will be issued a public apology. If I have my wishes, there’ll be a commendation for you in all of this. Jack will be free to go, free from any questions of what went on in here today.”
“And the Czechs? What happens to them?”
“The two we found here today, Mr. Vlade Kladivo and Mr.—” he wrinkles his nose as he says the name, “—Alphonse Gatanumi—” Eyebrows raised, Dockery looks at Shaw as if there’s a question implied that Shaw can answer. Shaw shrugs. “Very well. In any case, they have agreed to work with us in exchange for leniency in how we handle their role in all of this. I don’t think you should worry. They’ll be all right.”
“That’s good. Last question.”
Dockery looks at his watch and then back at Shaw. “I really must be—”
“What happens to the crooked cops?”
Dockery nods. He chin goes all wrinkled as he moves his head. “None of these men will walk from this no matter what I have to do to find out who’s played a role in this within the police force. I can assure you of that. This needs to be a priority for the bureau here in Northern California. Do you understand me?”
Shaw nods. “That’s good. I don’t believe you for shit, but that’s what I wanted to hear.” Before Dockery can say anything back to this, Shaw turns and walks away.
51
The Good Drugs
Jack wakes in a cold, white hospital room with fluorescent lights on the ceiling and a foggy day outside the window. Gannon and Shaw are in the room, but they don’t notice he’s awake, meaning he’s probably been out for a while. Before he says anything, he takes stock of his body, the pains, the stiffness, the stings. He feels about a dozen times worse than the last time he was in a hospital bed, the time he left wanting a steady diet of Vicodin. And maybe this time things will have to change. This time, he’ll take the pills, stay in bed, deal with what comes along with that. There won’t be any group of Russians out on the streets looking to kill him or a cop that wants his help. With any luck, Jack can just go home and rest.
But what home? Where is home anymore? Jack knows it’s not the house in Sausalito. Going back there and fixing himself up, taking Vicodin and trying to rehab his ass back to workout shape would be too much like the old shit, something he’s moved past. So what? Where’s he go next? Rehab? Jack doesn’t know, but the thought of staying on the West Coast much longer has turned him, turned his stomach. He shakes his head and that’s when the others notice he’s awake.
“Jack fucking Palms,” Shaw says. Gannon smiles. She sits down on the bed next to Jack, runs her hand along his thigh. She has gray circles under her eyes, looks as if she’s been working for a few days straight or hasn’t left this hospital room in a while. Jack tilts his head up and looks around for the Czechs, but none of them are here.
“Where are the boys?” Jack asks. “Vlade and his crew. Tell me they’re not in jail. OK?”
“No.” Shaw pushes his lips out and shakes his head. He runs his hand over his scalp. Gannon touches the bandage on the side of Jack’s face. “No, they not in jail, man. But they not here either.”
“They had to leave the country?”
Gannon nods, rests her hand on Jack’s good shoulder. “Yeah. They had to go.”
Jack sits up. “And me? What do the cops have for me?”
“Feds,” Shaw says. “No more cops in charge now. This shit blew up way past the city.”
“Tom and the sex trafficking, the killings, all of it. Dockery took control of the whole shebang. He even pulled me off the project. Sent me on leave.”
Confused, Jack makes a face, then stops when he realizes it hurts to move his right cheek. He swears. “Y
ou’re not going to help with this investigation anymore?”
“Oh, I’m a part of it.” She’s sitting on the bed next to Jack and he feels the warmth of her body against his hip. She still looks good, beyond the tiredness. Plus, now he knows exactly what kind of body she has under those clothes, and it’s better than he’d imagined, enough that he wants to see it again—he needs to have some more of that.
Especially after he gets all the body-numbing and mind-and-erection-altering drugs out of his system—though that might take a while. But, if nothing else, the West Coast has Jane Gannon going for it.
She goes on to explain that she’s a key witness in the investigation and they’ve pulled her off cases to give her some downtime to recover from the work she’s been through lately. “They said I should get a month off just for dealing with Tom. And I’m not sure I don’t agree.”
Shaw whistles. “Yeah. He fucked that up.” He turns toward the window and takes a step away from the bed. “How long were you married?”
Gannon shakes her head.
“So what’ll you do? What happens to Tom?”
With Shaw turned away, Gannon leans down and puts a kiss on Jack’s forehead: a good one, one that lasts, then another on the lips, hard and deep that says what she wants to do with her time off.
“Yeah?” Jack asks, when she’s done.
She raises her shoulders, then drops them. “I’m going to hang out. Work from home, find out how deep into this shit my husband got himself and then start shoveling the rest in on top of him.”
Jack wouldn’t want to be Tom Gannon, wouldn’t want to face the shit he’ll face. After ten years of marriage to this woman, he got twisted up with a sex slavery ring and forced to turn his military background on his own people: first a crooked cop, but then Mills Hopkins. Everything Mills did was above board. Then he shot at Jack and Shaw in self-preservation, bargained away any respect he could’ve still owned in the parking lot beneath their condo, and now he’s probably somewhere in the same hospital Jack’s in.
“He’s going away for this and now I have to do something to rebuild my life.”
“Yeah,” Jack says, not knowing what else would be appropriate—or if anything is. To say Gannon’s on the rebound understates her situation by about the depth of the Bay.
“Beautiful view out your window, Jack.” Shaw speaks toward the glass, fogs the window a bit in front of his mouth as he speaks. “You can see Angel Island out there, the bridge, over to Marin.”
“Sausalito?”
Shaw nods. “I’d imagine you can see where Sausalito is, maybe even pick out your house if you really know the lay of the land there. When was the last time you were back?”
“Shit.” Jack looks up at the fluorescents, thinks it over. He hasn’t been home since that first night back from the road when O’Malley took a shot at him; he hasn’t spent more than a day there in over two months. He’s got to go take care of things there. The Ducati’s in the garage, he only nailed some board over the back door to keep anyone or anything from coming in, the bed’s still torched. “Shit.”
“And you’ll want to get your car out of the garage at the Regis, don’t forget.”
Jack raises his right arm—it moves like his veins are full of sand—and strokes his forehead. “My baby,” he says. “Oh I haven’t seen my car in so long.”
Shaw turns back to the room. “You been neglecting that car, Jack. Maybe you don’t deserve a machine like that.”
Jack raises his chin at Shaw. “Fuck you, Detective. Fuck you very much. How’s about that?”
Shaw’s face breaks into a wide smile. “That’s my motherfucker. But stop losing these.” He holds up a set of keys, Jack’s, and jingles them in front of his chest. “Catch.” Shaw throws the keys toward Jack, and Jack sees them, thinks like he’s going to catch them, but his hand doesn’t get far. Instead Gannon catches them a few inches above Jack’s sternum. His hand’s still just getting on its way there.
“Thanks,” he tells her.
Shaw clicks his tongue, shaking his head. “Slow, my man. Slow.”
Jack doesn’t tell Shaw how his veins feel, he doesn’t tell him how much it hurts just to breathe, how to move is even worse, he just sighs. “The drugs, man. What can I tell you?”
Gannon sets the keys down on the table next to Jack’s bed.
“She be downstairs. In the parking lot.” Shaw’s smiling wide now, like there’s some fire in his eyes. “Tell me I don’t take care of you.”
“You do.” Jack has to give him that one: for bringing the Fastback from Walnut Creek to the city, from the hotel to here. He nods. “Now how you treating your wife? The family?”
Shaw raises his right hand, middle finger extended and the other fingers bent at the second knuckle, his hand straight. “Not as good as I should be, asshole. Thanks for reminding me.” Shaw walks across the room to Jack’s bed. He bends over and kisses the crown of Gannon’s head. “Get some rest, lady.”
She whispers that she will, squeezes the cop around his waist. Shaw takes Jack’s hand and wraps it in his own, sliding their palms together and locking his fingers with Jack’s as Jack makes a weak fist. “OK,” he says. “You cool out with things and I’ll be back around. Take care of this lady. She needs it.”
Gannon tries to hit Shaw, but he dodges out of the way. A nurse in a white uniform walks into the room, her look complete even down to the paper hat. “I have your shot for you, Mr. Palms.”
Shaw raises his eyebrows twice rapidly, waves as he walks out. “You enjoy that now, Jack. Don’t say no to drugs.”
Gannon kisses Jack again, lightly this time, and runs her hand over his hair. “Get some rest, OK? I’ll talk to you later.”
The nurse fixes her needle and pushes it into Jack’s IV bag.
“Yeah,” he says. “I think I can use some of that.”
52
Noir
It’s a cold morning outside in the fog, brisk, some would say, and he could hail a cab to go right back to the East Bay, but instead Alvin Shaw starts to walk. He’ll take BART back home to Walnut Creek and has no reason not to: his wife won’t be home from work for another few hours and his kids are still at school. He’s tired, but the coffee he’s been drinking from the hospital cafeteria is some of the strongest around. Cops like coffee, but no one drinks it or needs it as much as doctors. Fucking medical profession should know if it’s really bad for you, and if they drink it then hell, it can’t be that bad.
But before Shaw walks down the hill to Market and BART, he has one stop to make. He turns left out of the hospital and at the corner crosses the street to the other side of Bush. He stays on Hyde walking north toward Pine and the hospital’s parking lot. Sure, it’ll cost Jack a hundred bucks probably to get the car out of hock when he’s released, but it’ll be worth it.
Shaw wants to see the car one last time, the Fastback he’s driven twice in as many days, loved the feel of, the power, the style. He’s gotten to know Jack better in two times driving his car than in anything else that they’ve done. And the fact is, he actually even likes Jack a little bit now that he’s driven the car. Shaw knows that Jack’s done the work on this car himself, knows you have to when you own a machine like this, that him just driving it is a serious matter, an invasion into a part of Jack’s life. Still, he knows he treated it right, took the hills like they should be taken, cared for her on the turns. Hell, he did more than that considering where it was when he got it, what condition it was in, and where it is now. So what if he changed the color? Thing of beauty like that looks even better in black.
At the far end of the block, Shaw crosses the street between traffic, flipping off a guy in a Honda who honks when he has to slow down. “Fuck you,” Shaw mouths to the driver, standing in the road an extra beat, daring the man to run him down or get out of the car and say something back.
Sure enough, the guy waits for Shaw to move out of the way, and then flips him the bird
, only at the point where he’s already moving again.
On the opposite sidewalk, Shaw walks up the ramp and into the parking garage. He’s parked the Fastback about halfway up the first ramp on the left, where he knows Jack will find it—you don’t miss a car like that, especially not with a license plate that spells out your last name.
And still, Shaw knows Jack might have some trouble finding the car after the work the Mancinis did for him at their garage. He decides to slip the attendant a twenty to recognize Jack, point him in the right direction when he comes. Whenever he comes.
Shaw sees the license plate first: PALMS. Dumb fuck couldn’t get away from his name this whole time, even when he wanted to hide out from people in the city. But what can you do? One thing Shaw knows: you can’t leave a car like this with bullet holes in it. You just can’t let that happen. You have a machine like this and a friend in need, you got to leave it better than you found it—always what his momma told him. That’s where the Mancinis came in.
Shaw crosses the aisle to the Fastback, pats its trunk with his hand. The metal’s cold to the touch, but the paint job’s pro—the car shinier than ever. It looks even better than before.
He raps on the trunk, walks around to the side and to where the last bullet hole was. The Mancinis filled them, buffed them, then repainted the whole car. Matter of fact, that fixed the only thing Shaw didn’t like about Jack’s ride: the color. That orange-red had to go. No matter where it came from, that couldn’t have been Jack’s first choice. Shaw’s first choice? That was easy: black.
He steps back away from the car, sees the reflection of his legs in its side, looks it up and down and doesn’t see any trace of the bullet holes in its dark, shiny black paint job. Shit, he can see himself looking down at it, and what’s a prettier sight than that?
“Yeah,” he says out loud, whistles at the car’s sleek line, its now fully-restored exterior that looks like this thing just rolled out of Detroit. The Mancinis did a hell of a job. They always do. But there’s nothing like the original car underneath all of this, even this much later. It’s been forty years since 1966, but some things still haven’t changed: things like beauty, speed, design, and the power of black.