Ryan hoped the gun wouldn’t be discovered or stolen by some dishonest baggage handler, but that was a chance he’d have to take. There was no use worrying about that now.
He’d picked up a paper at the newsstand next to the lounge. The headline on the front page gave him a feeling of satisfaction. Smiling, he read the article.
Prominent College Professors and Nephew Killed in Arson Fire
Professor Bill Delgadillo was killed last night in what police say was an arson fire.
The noted author and lecturer, considered to be the foremost authority in the field of early childhood education, was found burned to death in his Chicago home.
Found with Delgadillo, in the upstairs bedroom, was his wife, Brenda, a noted law professor. A man believed to be the couple’s nephew, Hugo Delgadillo, was found on the ground floor at the base of the stairs leading up to the bedroom. All three victims were handcuffed and preliminary reports indicate that Hugo had been shot.
A blackened five-gallon can was found in the upstairs bedroom, leading authorities to conclude that gasoline was the propellant used to start the blaze.
According to police, there are no suspects.
The article went on to detail Bill’s and Brenda’s lives, describing them as former college radicals who had become prominent in both the academic and political arenas. It excused their criminal past as nothing more than a time of “youthful expression” and pretty much fluffed over their terrorist and bombing campaigns.
Ryan heard the announcement that his flight was preparing to board. He downed his drink, left the newspaper on the table, and proceeded to the gate. Other than the headline and first few paragraphs describing the demise of his victims, there was nothing interesting to him about the article. The fact that they had died painfully was all that mattered. Ryan wasn’t interested in reading about how respected they were, who their political friends were, or to what foundations they had belonged. All of that editorial eulogizing was bullshit. They had been scumbags, pure and simple, and no accolades about their academic achievements or standing in the community would change that. The only change that mattered was that now they were dead scumbags.
The flight back to San Francisco was restful. The events of the previous day had taxed him and he slept most of the way. He awakened to gentle shaking from a pretty American Airlines flight attendant who asked him to return his seat to the upright position and fasten his seatbelt in preparation for landing.
Ryan gazed out the window as the plane descended through the clouds on its approach to San Francisco International Airport. Lights sparkled on the peninsula below as the sun retreated behind the western hills, giving way to dusk.
Upon deplaning, Ryan retrieved his luggage. He was relieved to find it still locked and intact. He walked the short distance to an elevator and took it up a couple of floors to long-term parking.
After putting his suitcase in the trunk of his aging Crown Vic, he started it up and headed for the exit. He drove north on the Bayshore Freeway toward San Francisco. As he crossed the San Francisco/San Mateo County line into the city, he thought about the previous couple of days and contemplated his next move.
Following the James Lick Freeway north, he merged into the westbound lanes and took the Fell Street off-ramp, driving west past the Panhandle and along the southern edge of Golden Gate Park before entering Lincoln Way. He felt vindicated as he passed Park Station, knowing that he was finally getting some justice for his grandpa, but he also realized that there were still a few more scores to settle before he was finished. Turning onto Twenty-Fifth Avenue, he drove a couple of blocks and pulled up in front of the old house.
The moist fog rolling in from the Pacific cooled his face as he locked the car and climbed the stairs. Ryan flicked on the light in the living room and went over to the answering machine to check his messages. There were two—both from people he had been hoping would call.
He pressed the button and listened. “Hey, bro. Sal here. I got your call. Sorry I didn’t get back to you sooner. Call me so we can hook up.”
The second message was from a woman. “Hi, big guy. It’s Carol. Good to hear you’re in town. Am I gonna get to see you? Give me a call if you have the time. Love ya, darlin’. Bye.”
Carol was someone very special; he always spent time with her when he was in town. Yeah, he would definitely see her, but that would have to wait until his business with Sal was concluded.
Ryan walked down the hall to one of the back bedrooms and laid his suitcase on the bed. After removing the gun, he retrieved a box of bullets from the night-stand and reloaded it.
PART 2
Sal
CHAPTER
5
Sunlight was streaming through the large bay window in the living room.
The last thing Ryan remembered was sitting down in the La-Z-Boy and popping open the can of Bud that now stood half empty on the table next to him.
He downed what was left of the beer before getting up and going to the kitchen to brew a pot of coffee. Had to have that morning cup of joe. Actually it was more like six cups. Ryan was a real caffeine addict, and if he didn’t pump himself full of it in the morning he could be a mean and irritable son of a bitch.
The coffee hit the spot. “Hot and black, just the way I like my women,” Ryan thought. He laughed as he remembered his grandpa’s standard answer to people who asked him how he liked his mud.
He picked up the phone and dialed Sal’s number.
The voice on the other end was raspy. “Hello.”
“Hey, Sal, it’s Ryan. What’s going on?”
“Nothing much, brother. Sorry I missed you the other day when you called. How long you in town for this time?” Sal asked.
“I’ve got an extended leave so I’ll be here for a while. I need to see you about something as soon as possible. When can we get together?”
“How about tonight, bro? I don’t have anything going on. How’s that restaurant at Rockaway Beach sound?” asked Sal.
“Rockaway it is. Five o’clock all right?”
“Five sounds good. I’ll see you then.”
Ryan hung up and gathered his thoughts. He’d been thinking about this meeting for a long time and hoped that Sal would be receptive to the plan that was formulating in his mind. It had begun as an afterthought to avenging the murder of his grandfather, but the more he thought about it, the more sense it made.
Later that day, Ryan drove along the Pacific Coast Highway en route to his meeting with Sal. The panorama that unfolded before him as he descended the winding, mile-long grade into the city of Pacifica was truly breathtaking. Three sets of rugged hills surrounded the seaside community, forming a backdrop for an ocean still gleaming from the light of a sun that was slowly disappearing beyond the western horizon.
Ryan pulled into the parking lot at Rockaway. The restaurant was a local landmark. Situated at the water’s edge, it was famous for its seafood.
It was four-thirty and Sal wasn’t due for another half hour or so. Ryan decided to take a walk on the beach. He made his way along the sand and gazed at Pedro Point, a distant rock formation to the south. Seagulls and pelicans skimmed the water looking for fish as a couple of crows cawed from their perch on a large piece of driftwood nearby. Crows were funny animals, always moving sideways and jumping away when approached. Ryan chuckled. “Goddamned flying rats,” he thought.
Watching the seagulls reminded him of the time his grandma took him to Fleishhacker Zoo. She had been applying mustard to a hot dog she’d bought him when a gray-feathered scavenger swooped down, grabbed the dog, and flew away with it. He laughed. That was the only time he could remember his usually pious grandma getting her Irish up enough to actually curse.
Ryan sat on a rock near the high-tide mark and reflected back to when he and Sal first met. They were students—or, as they liked to joke, inmates—at the Dawn of Light Catholic Boys’ Home in the Napa Valley.
Mr. and Mrs. O’Hara had taken their wayward thir
teen-year-old to the facility because they were at their wits’ end. The boy was totally out of control. His parents believed that his behavior was a manifestation of deep, unresolved emotional trauma buried in his psyche.
Five years had passed since the murder of his grandfather. His grandmother’s death the following year had served to compound the already overwhelming turmoil he felt. The once-polite little boy with the infectious smile had become a scowling troublemaker whose main recreation in life was beating the hell out of anyone who looked at him cross-eyed.
By the time he was in the eighth grade at A. P. Giannini Junior High School, his reputation as a street brawler and school-yard extortionist was fully established. Kids would take the long way home after school to avoid crossing paths with him. Others hurried to the cafeteria at lunchtime in order to buy their meals before he relieved them of their money.
It had all come to a head when he was expelled from school in the spring of 1979.
He had been in English class reciting a poem when a kid a couple of rows over laughed at his mispronunciation of a word. Ryan had flown into a rage, jumped over a row of desks, and turned the kid’s face into a bloody pulp before the teacher could stop him.
Amid a lot of “Fuck you, teach” and other obscene outbursts, Ryan had been taken to the dean’s office. The police were called and he was cited for battery before being released to his parents.
After appearing in court at the Youth Guidance Center—or “Juvy,” as it was known to its youthful inmates—Ryan was convicted of battery and given thirty days and a year’s probation.
Living away from home was the last thing on Ryan’s mind as he rode through Napa Valley’s wine country in the backseat of his parents’ car. He suspected nothing, even when they pulled into the parking lot of the neat little campus of the Dawn of Light Catholic Boys’ Home, which sat in the shadows of the Mayacamas Mountains. The setting was pleasant. Surrounded by vineyards, the school consisted of several buildings that formed a courtyard around a Spanish-style church. All the buildings were white with red-tile roofs.
“What gives, Pop? Why are we stopping here?” Ryan asked his dad, still not suspecting that he had arrived at his new home.
Kevin O’Hara got out of the car and, always the gentleman, opened the door for his wife, Bridgette. His son got out of the back seat and repeated his question, adding, “What is this place, Pop? Why are we here?”
Mr. O’Hara put his arm around his wayward boy and replied, “Come on, Son, there’s someone I want you to meet.”
They entered the front door to a rectory and were met by a receptionist, who asked them to have a seat. She disappeared from the room and returned a few minutes later with the director of the center.
Father Michael O’Rourke was a big, burly, fifty-year-old Irishman with a red face and receding gray hair, whose first service to the Lord had been in Ireland. After arriving in America in the early sixties, he was assigned to the “Dawn” and had been its director ever since.
He introduced himself to the worried parents and then looked at Ryan. “Welcome to the Dawn of Light, young man. I think you’ll be very happy here.”
“Hey, Pop, what the hell gives? What is this fucking place?” Ryan blurted out before he could catch himself.
The priest’s voice boomed into Ryan’s ears in a brogue so thick he could barely understand. “We’ll have none of that vulgarity in the house of the Lord or in any other building at this school, young man! Is that understood?”
“Yes, Father, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…”
“Okay, then, water under the bridge, lad. You start with a clean slate from this point forward.”
After a half-hour orientation in which the rules of the center were laid out, Kevin O’Hara went to his car and returned with a suitcase. As instructed, he’d packed just one set of clothing. His son would only need them when leaving the school grounds on special occasions. The rest of the time, he would be wearing a uniform.
The last thing Kevin heard as he drove from the lot and disappeared through the vineyards was the fading voice of his son crying out in the distance, “Pop, don’t leave me here. I want to go home!”
Tears welled in his eyes and Bridgette wept quietly beside him as he turned onto the Silverado Trail and headed south, back to San Francisco.
CHAPTER
6
The roar of a Harley eclipsed the pounding of the surf, snapping Ryan out of his latest daydream. Rising from the rock, he walked toward the parking lot and saw his friend getting off the hog.
Salvatore Angelo Miroglio was a big man. Six five, two hundred and fifty pounds, with piercing blue eyes and a body full of tattoos, he would have been an imposing figure even without the long brown hair and beard that made him look like a mountain man. The black leather jacket and Big Bens that he wore made his appearance all the more intimidating.
The two men approached each other, shook hands, and then went into their usual routine of fist thumping and bear hugs.
“We have a lot of catching up to do, you little Irish fuck.”
“Yeah, wop, we do.”
They laughed as they remembered the bloody noses and bruised knuckles that followed the first time they’d greeted each other in this manner. That time, the future friends weren’t joking.
It was a slow night at the restaurant and they were able to find a table by the window overlooking the ocean.
“What’ll it be, bro?” Sal asked as they sat down. “I’m buyin’.”
“Bud with a shot of Jack will do just fine, thanks.”
Sal chose Stoli on ice.
The waiter took their order and returned a few minutes later with the drinks.
Sal raised his glass. “Here’s looking at ya, bro. Now how about telling me to what I owe the honor of this meeting.”
Ryan looked at Sal and paused. He was trying to find the right words to present his proposition. He knew he’d have to come clean with his friend and tell him what went down in Chicago.
Sal would have to know his entire plan from start to finish if he was going to have any chance of enlisting his help. Yeah, honesty was the best policy. Trusting Sal wasn’t a problem. He’d proven that many times over. The problem was the sell. Sal was courageous and not averse to taking chances, but he wasn’t foolhardy. If there was risk in something, he wanted to know that he had a reasonable chance of coming out on top.
It was no secret that Sal was a criminal. Outwardly, he didn’t look any different than any other motorcycle outlaw, but that was as far as first appearances went. He was a master criminal. He was multidimensional and not trapped in the rut of any single endeavor. Anyone wanting to score drugs, crack heads, fence stolen property, plan a heist, or hit a jewelry store in the dead of night would have a much better chance of success if they knew Sal.
He hadn’t achieved seven-figure wealth by being a petty biker punk. No, he was much bigger than that, and although Ryan wasn’t in the know, he suspected that his résumé also included being a hit man.
Neither one of them ever spoke in specifics about what they did. It was just understood. They were both bad dudes.
Ryan began to speak. “Sal, you know as well as anyone why I wound up at the Dawn of Light. I was all fucked up in the head and acting out very badly. My parents couldn’t handle me. By the time they turned me over to Father O’Rourke, I was cursing the day I was born, denying God’s existence, and giving the finger to the whole human race. I didn’t give a shit about anybody or anything, least of all myself. I was on a path to self-destruction and everyone knew it. A priest at our parish told my folks about the Dawn and in desperation they enrolled me. Turns out it was the best thing that ever happened to me and probably prevented me from embarking on a life of crime.”
“Yeah, me too.” Sal laughed.
“Well, you know the rest—or at least some of it. After we got out of the Dawn, you went your way and I went mine. The profession I chose has served me well and has fulfilled me in many ways. Th
e problem is that I was never successful in coming to terms with the death of my grandparents. Just knowing that the filthy degenerate bastards who killed them had gone free ate away at me. When I say killed them, it’s because Grandma’s death was brought about by Grandpa’s. She just wilted away and died. I was the one who found her dead, all balled up in the fetal position in a dark corner of the garage one day after school. From that point on, it was all downhill for me. I went totally out of control. I knew that if I was ever going to be able to call myself a man, I would have to even the score and get those responsible for destroying my family.”
Sal broke in. “Shit, man, you’re more of a man than most guys I know. You don’t have anything to prove to anyone. Christ, you’ve been in combat how many times now? What about the medals you earned knocking off those terrorist bastards in Afghanistan and Iraq? No, buddy, you’re as much a man as anyone I know and then some. But go ahead and continue. Sorry I interrupted you.”
“I don’t have much of a family left now, Sal. My dad retired from the trucking business a few years ago, and shortly after that my mom died of cancer. After she passed, the old man just sat at home and drank. His liver quit on him last year and he checked out.”
“You never told me that, buddy. How come?”
“There wasn’t any need to. You didn’t know them all that well and I didn’t see any point in dwelling on it. The worst part in all this, though, is what happened to my little brother and sister, who were forced to deal with some heavy emotional baggage without any help. Had my parents been less wrapped up in their own self-pity, they may have noticed that the little ones needed some parental reassurance. Perhaps if they’d been thinking straight instead of wallowing in their own grief, they’d have been motivated to get the kids some professional counseling. They failed my brother and sister and, as a result, their lives are a screwed-up mess.
“Until he dropped off the radar screen a couple of years ago, my brother, Neal, had been working in construction. He’s a good carpenter but he can’t hold a steady job. Sooner or later he winds up getting fired for either showing up drunk, getting in a fight, or telling the boss to piss up a rope. He’s been married three times, has five kids whom he rarely sees, and has been treated for depression for as long as I can remember. In short, he’s a mess, and I attribute it all to that day in 1974 when those Lenin’s Legion pukes killed Grandpa and destroyed the family.
The Rampage of Ryan O'Hara Page 4