Karl Darlow lived in a walk-up in North Park, an older neighborhood of San Diego. Johnny stopped in front of a small white house and they went to the side where a stairway led up to a self-contained apartment.
"Funny, the door's open," Sandy said. "Dad always locks his doors around here."
Johnny touched Sandy's shoulder and stepped in front of her. He opened the door outward and as he did a huge figure wearing a ski mask over his face came rushing past them. He slammed Johnny into Sandy and both of them stumbled and fell on the landing.
The masked man never looked back as he ran down the steps to the sidewalk. Johnny pushed Sandy off him, jumped up and charged after the fleeing man. But he had too much head start. When Johnny reached the sidewalk he saw the man turning the corner a half block ahead. Johnny put on a burst of speed but by the time he got to the corner, a car was laying rubber on the far side of the street, screeching away from him.
Johnny concentrated on the license plate but could only make out four of the six letters and numbers. It was a light blue Pontiac, maybe two years old. He stood there panting a moment, then hurried back to the apartment.
He heard Sandy crying as he climbed the steps. Inside, he saw that the apartment was wrecked. The furniture was smashed, the TV picture tube shattered. The end table was broken, the sofa slashed. Family pictures were thrown on the floor.
Sandy's sobbing came from the bedroom. Johnny rushed through the rubble to the door.
Karl Darlow lay spread-eagled on the bed, hands and feet tied to the bed frame. He was on his back and naked to the waist. There were six long gashes across his chest and belly. One of his eyes was swollen shut and his nose was broken and bleeding.
Tears were streaming down Sandy's cheeks.
"Phone?" Johnny asked.
"Pulled out. Ruined."
Johnny looked at the slashes. They were still bleeding but not seriously. Who would do something like this?
"Cut him free, Sandy. Stop the blood flow if you can with compresses. I'll find a phone."
Downstairs he banged on the front door, but no one was home. Johnny raced to the house next door and rang the bell. A woman appeared and he asked her to call the police and an ambulance. A man was hurt next door. The woman looked skeptical, but after staring at Johnny for a few moments she nodded and turned indoors. Johnny followed her and waited to be sure she got through. Then he ran back to the apartment.
Sandy had cut the ropes on her father's hands and feet and was holding a folded sheet pressed to Karl's bare chest, trying to stop the bleeding. Karl was still unconscious.
Johnny was not sure what to do next. He applied a cold cloth to Karl's nose to stop the nosebleed. Then he heard feet pounding up the steps.
"Police," someone called from the front door.
"In here," Johnny said, and a young patrolman came in.
"What happened?" he asked.
Johnny told him what they had seen. The cop returned to his patrol car, made a report and came back.
"The paramedic unit should be here soon," he said."
Johnny went into the living room and began to pace the floor as if from the shambles he could gain some clue as to why the attack occurred. He was still walking when the medics arrived.
The two men in white brushed past him, examined Karl and called on the radio. A doctor somewhere told them what to do and Karl had regained consciousness by the time they got the temporary bandages on him and had moved him to the gurney.
Sandy sat on the floor by the bed. "Why?" she asked, looking at Johnny.
"I don't know. But I'm going to find out."
The patrolman introduced Johnny to a plainclothes sergeant. The sergeant took Johnny and Sandy into the living room, where they sat on the slashed couch and answered his questions.
They could not determine why her father had been "disciplined," as the sergeant said.
When the officer was through with the interrogation, and the photographer he brought had taken pictures, Johnny took the detective to one side.
"You used the term 'disciplined. What do you mean by that?"
"I'm from the Organized Crime Task Force, OCTF." My guess is that Mr. Darlow knew something, saw something or met someone that he shouldn't have. The Mob wants him to understand that if he doesn't keep quiet about it, the next time they'll kill him."
Johnny gave the cop a description of the intruder who escaped. The man was maybe an inch more than six feet, weighed about 190 pounds and was quick on his feet. Johnny had seen no weapon, but guessed a knife would be in his pocket.
The detective watched Johnny. "You remember anything else that I should know? Like where Karl has been the last few weeks, maybe special people he mentioned. Anything that might help?"
"I wish I did. Karl is a fisherman. Skippers the Flying Fool out of the Point Loma sportfishing area. He hasn't been anywhere else. This is fishing season."
"Right," the sergeant said, and handed Johnny his card. "If you think of anything, let me know."
"Yeah, I'll do that." Johnny read the name on the card. "And thanks, Sergeant Hall. Oh, where did the paramedics take Karl?"
"Emergency at University Hospital."
Twenty minutes later Johnny and Sandy had closed up the apartment, turned out the lights and locked the front door. They drove to the hospital and found Karl in one of the ten curtained-off slots along one wall in the emergency treatment area. His wounds had been bandaged and he lay resting, his eyes closed.
A young doctor looked in.
"A little nasty, but nothing serious here. We set the cartilage in his nose so it shouldn't give him any trouble. The cuts on his torso were surprisingly shallow." The hurried medic shrugged. "At any rate we want to keep Mr. Darlow overnight and he should be able to go home tomorrow. We'd like to x-ray his head and do some scans to be sure there are no cranial problems."
A nurse entered, seemed irritated that they were still there. "We have to move him upstairs now. He's been given a sedative, that's why he's sleeping. He was conscious for a while when he got here. Don't worry, he's going to be fine." She managed a thin smile, then grabbed the narrow hospital bed and pulled it through the curtains.
Johnny took Sandy's hand and led her out to his VW.
That was when he remembered that he had not told Sergeant Hall the license plate number. It was not complete and he had almost forgotten about it. But he knew it, MWW — 7. Should he call the sergeant?
Johnny decided he would do some detective work of his own. Mafia! Twice the same day the group had come into his life. He would have a talk with Armand Killinger in the morning. Then he would try to find out who owned that car and who the driver was.
He would also have a long talk with Karl Darlow. What could he be mixed up in that the Mafia thought was so important? Was it something to do with sport or commercial fishing or his boat?
Sandy curled up against the door as they drove home. Her face was wan and her voice shaky when she spoke.
"Why, Johnny? Why would anyone do something like this to daddy? He's never done anything wrong in his life. He's the only one of our family left. My mother dead in a car wreck, my older brother killed in Vietnam… We Darlows are down to two."
"I'm going to help," Johnny said. "First thing tomorrow I ask Mr. Killinger. He knows everything that goes on in this town. And I've got a small lead I didn't tell the sergeant about."
Sandy glared at him. "Oh, Johnny, I've got one man I love in the hospital, I couldn't stand it if something happened to you, too."
"Don't worry, I'm just a coward at heart."
"You are not." She looked at him intently. "Johnny, you never did talk much about Lebanon and the fighting. But sometimes you have dreams about it. One night you cried out that your friend was killed. Then you screamed. I know you're not a coward. Just don't try to be a hero. Let the police take care of it, please."
"When I get something I will. I'm just a legman. I dig up facts. That's all I'm going to be doing."
"And it
won't be dangerous?" she asked.
"I don't see how it could be." He smiled down at her as he parked behind the center. "Now relax, and smile. Your old man is as tough as shark hide. He'll be fine in a few days, a week at the most. Then he'll get mad. Before that we both have to have a good long talk with him."
Later that night as they lay in bed, Sandy wept and Johnny put his arms around her.
"He looked so helpless!" Sandy said. "Lying there with blood all over him."
"It's over, try to forget it. Think about the good times."
She was quiet for a while, then she reached up and kissed him.
Around midnight Johnny woke up and lay staring up at the ceiling in the darkness.
Would it? Would everything be all right?
Mafia! A cold fear had gripped his gut.
9
Johnny Bolan stifled a yawn as he strode into Armand Killinger's office the next morning. Johnny had not slept well, but awoke early because he felt it was imperative that he speak to his boss about the events surrounding the attack on Karl Darlow.
Armand Killinger had a nine-o'clock court appointment but he took time to listen to Johnny. When the story was told, Killinger pointed to a small item in the morning paper about Karl. The police called it an apparent robbery attempt interrupted when visitors came to the house. It gave Karl's name and address but not Johnny's and Sandy's names. Killinger peaked his fingers and leaned back in his big chair.
"Yes, Sergeant Hall was right, it certainly fits the M. O. of the Mafia types we have in town. They show a lot of fake class and polish, lots of money, but with morals and habits of alley fighters. My suggestion is to leave it alone. Talk to Mr. Darlow. Try to convince him that these men will kill him the next time without blinking an eye."
"He must know why they're after him," Johnny said.
"Hopefully, but he might not. I had a client like that once who witnessed a murder and didn't realize it. She was threatened and roughed up and told to forget something she didn't know. The police nailed the killers and she was called as a witness, but she hadn't really seen anything incriminating she could swear to."
"Great, so we just drop it?"
"Johnny, I know you're a fighter. I know of the work you do down at the Free Legal Aid Center. That's fine, down there. I've done the same thing now and then. But this isn't some self-important landlord, or some jerk trying to rip off a car. These people are La Cosa Nostra. These people are killers."
"I've heard."
"You know anything about the Mafia?"
"Not much."
"You know what 'making your bones' means?"
Johnny shook his head.
"Making your bones is the Mob's term for killing someone. Not even the lowest soldier can get a promotion in the Family until he's 'made his bones, usually on a definite hit of someone who is presenting a problem. Like your friend Darlow could become."
Johnny was not satisfied with his boss's suggestion. He would not tell Armand about the license plate. Then he remembered somebody who he thought might be able to help. What was her name? He had dated her a few times just after he got out of the paralegal classes. Nancy! Yeah. He hoped she still worked in the San Diego Police Department.
Back at his desk he made the call.
"I'm sorry I'll need a last name, sir. We have more than one Nancy here."
He dug into his memory. "Carter, Nancy Carter."
The phone rang and a voice came on. "I. D. Lab, Carter."
"Nancy, this is Johnny Gray, remember me?"
There was a pause. "Oh, yes, the guy who said he wanted to date other girls and see how they compared to me. That was about a year ago. How did I compare?"
"Just fine, but I don't have much social life. I have a small favor I hope you can do for me."
"I guess. What is it?"
"Some guy banged into my car, hit and run, and I got part of his license but not all of it. I have the three letters in front and one number."
"That's work, John." She sighed. "Hell, I'll try. Things are slow here this morning. What do you have?"
Johnny told her.
"You still working for Killinger?"
"Yes, how did you know that?"
"I think I saw you behind him on TV once. Give me a half hour and I'll call you back. What's your number?"
He gave it to her and hung up. It was a long shot. Johnny looked over his stack of work and then dug into it.
The phone call from Nancy came twenty minutes later.
"We got lucky, Johnny," Nancy said. "That sequence of plates was sent to northern California for distribution, so most of them are up there. The computer came up with only six in the San Diego area. Got a pencil?"
She went through them, with the full plate number, last known name and address and year and make of car.
"Nancy, I owe you one. Lunch one of these days?"
"Sure, John. But I don't put much stock in those 'one of these days' kind of deals."
"I might surprise you."
"Hope so, Johnny. Give me a call, anytime."
Johnny said goodbye and stared at the information. Only one of the cars was a Pontiac. He looked at the name. Philmore Industries Inc. was the registered owner of the car. The address was 1200 Third Avenue. That was right downtown, one of the high rises, a big bank building.
Johnny finished his desk work, checked out with Nel and drove past the address. He had guessed right. The building was on the edge of the Civic Center complex, with about two hundred offices: the Security Pacific Bank Plaza. On a hunch he drove into the underground parking, took his ticket and spiraled down two levels. He parked in a slot and walked along the rows of cars looking at license numbers.
This was stupid. There must be two hundred cars down there. And what good would it do to find that car. He had the name of the outfit!
In the lobby he checked the directory and found Philmore Industries listed on the sixteenth floor, 1607. Easy.
Only it did not turn out to be that easy.
Johnny wore his three-piece suit the way Armand liked him to, and now he felt right in place with the junior executives rushing around. When he got off at the sixteenth floor he found not a typical office-building hallway but rather a soft, deep carpet, luxurious decor and a desk twenty feet in front of the elevators. The whole floor was taken up by Philmore Industries, with the name and company crest expensively displayed on the far wall.
Johnny hesitated, then walked over to the attractive blond sitting behind the reception desk. He was thinking fast. He knew no one here. He did not even know what the firm did. Just as the woman looked up at him with soft green eyes, he had his ploy.
"Hey, nice place. I thought this would be a little office. My name is Bill Johnson and I wanted to talk to somebody about sponsoring an advertisement in our college yearbook. It's really a very good advertising value because these books are kept for the life of the person. They are…"
The woman was smiling and waving both hands in front of him.
"Wait a minute." She laughed. "You don't have to sell me. The people who decide those things are inside. Let me see, you said it was a college yearbook. That would be corporate public relations, I would think. Oh, darn. Mr. Jabrowski is out today. He won't be back until Thursday. Could I set up an appointment With you for Thursday morning, say around nine-thirty?"
"I'm sorry, I can't. My deadline is this afternoon. Damn!"
The blonde smiled and put down her pencil. "Hmm, let's see. You could talk to Mr. Gates, but he can't sign an order, and I guess that's what you need."
A group of men were leaving an office down the carpeted hall. Johnny looked at the men as they walked toward him. Three of them looked like ordinary businessmen, but the fourth evidently was a bodyguard. Only the thug looked at Johnny, discarded him visually and went on past.
Johnny glanced back at the woman and shrugged.
"Well, I wasn't going to win the prize for the most ads sold, anyway. Maybe next year. What type of business is th
is, anyway? We were supposed to get several categories of firms for balance."
"Actually we're a holding company here. We own at least fifty-one percent of a number of different kinds of businesses."
"Ah, well, thanks. I better get to my next prospect." Johnny turned and walked to the elevator. A woman came from a door down the hall, said hello to the receptionist and walked on to the elevator.
If Johnny thought the blonde was pretty, she paled into plainness compared to this brunette. He liked the smooth easy way she walked, almost a dancer's motion. She was taller than most women at maybe five-eight, and her silky black hair shimmered around her shoulders as she stopped beside him and pushed the down button.
She glanced at him and smiled. "You'll stand here all day unless you tell the little man in the small box on the roof where you want to go."
"Oh, right," Johnny replied, still staring at her. She was remarkable. Her voice was strong, yet had shadings of emotion and coloring. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen right up close. Not a blemish on creamy skin, soft brown eyes under arched brows and just a touch of mascara on her lashes. A natural, alluring face that sparked his immediate interest.
She stirred uneasily and laughed. "Well, how did I do?"
Johnny grinned, reached and pushed the down button again. "Sorry, you caught me. I've got to learn how to appreciate a beautiful woman without letting her know. I'm much too obvious."
"Hi, I'm Angela."
She held out her hand and he took it. "I'm Johnny." When he touched her fingers he tingled. That had never happened before. He looked at her and for a moment he thought she felt something, too. Then the elevator doors opened, spoiling the mood, and she dropped his hand.
The car was empty. They stepped inside and he pushed the first-floor button. "Oh, were you going down?"
Resurrection Day Page 7