[Chauncey Means 01.0] A Hard Place

by Sean Lynch

  “I start my shift at seven. Come on down and I’ll spot you a few drinks and a plate of enchiladas.”

  “Aren’t you on the job tonight? How is the city of Oakland going to fight crime without your magnificent law enforcement mojo?”

  He laughed. “The streets of Oakland own me Monday through Thursday. Those nights, Sergeant Alvero Quintana is putting it on the line for law and order. But I have Fridays, Saturdays, and Sunday’s off. On Friday, Saturday, or Sunday night I wouldn’t care if the City of Oakland sunk into the fucking Bay.”

  “It’s good to have seniority,” I said. “You bartend every weekend?”

  “Only on Sunday nights. The Yucatan doesn’t serve alcohol on Sundays. We’re open to the under twenty-one crowd.”

  A lot of clubs did that. It was a policy designed to cultivate future adult patrons by getting underage kids in the door on specific youth-oriented nights. These clubs reserved their slowest night, typically the one with the fewest adult patrons anyway, for kids sixteen and older. ‘Youth nights,’ they were called, and they were a pain-in-the-ass for the local police departments. Gangsters, thugs, dope-peddlers and pedophiles could always be found skulking in the vicinity of clubs during youth night. And just because there were no alcoholic beverages being served inside the club on youth night didn’t mean the kids were sober. Most of the little darlings either got loaded before arrival or smuggled in booze to add to their virgin daiquiris and Shirley Temples once inside the club.

  “I’ll see you at the San Leandro Yucatan a little after seven, Al,” I said. “I appreciate you taking the time to meet with me.”

  “My pleasure. I’ll be at the bar. Tell the doorman Big Al is waiting for you.”

  I hung up and dialed Karen Pearson’s number.

  Tonight I had plans. I was going to meet Sergeant Al Quintana at the Yucatan club.

  With a little luck, I would obtain information about the pimp who allegedly whacked a B-girl named Holly, and who tried to whack me. He might also have ordered the death of Marisol Hernandez, and sent a Romeo pimp to turn out her sister Belicia.

  I was also going to see Karen Pearson and give her a chance to ‘make it up to me,’ whatever ‘it’ was.

  Two birds with one phone.

  Chapter 23

  The Yucatan restaurant in San Leandro is on Estudillo Avenue, near the 580 Highway. That’s far enough from downtown San Leandro to make it freeway accessible, but close enough to East Oakland to make it uncomfortable. It’s also only about fifteen minutes from my house. I called Karen and asked her to meet me in the Yucatan’s parking lot. Tonight’s festivities were going to be a combination of business and pleasure, and I told her so. The Yucatan’s not terribly far from her apartment. Karen was amenable.

  I met Karen in the Yucatan parking lot a little before 7:00 PM, making sure I got there early to observe her arrival. She pulled up in a newer, forest-green Subaru. I walked up as she got out and was rewarded by a smile when she saw me. Karen Pearson had a helluva smile.

  “Hello, Chance,” she said, giving me an inviting hug and more-than-casual kiss.

  “Hello Karen,” I said back. “It’s good to see you.”

  The parking lot was filled with cars which looked like they belonged on the set of the movie The Fast and the Furious. Mostly imports with a lot of lowered chassis and chrome. I was certain more than a few of the sleds were hot, and if not stolen, full of parts that were.

  Kids were swarming the entrance, and a line formed which snaked around the side of the Yucatan. Most of the youth were dressed in their best caricature of what they thought adult club-goers were wearing this season.

  The girls had their hair piled high, teased, or braided, and were wearing clothing, or the lack thereof, that would have been stripper-wear in my youth. A lot of them had enough make-up on to be circus clowns, and stood atop heels that would give an adult woman a nosebleed. Over-accessories seemed the order of the day; dangly bracelets and gaudy necklaces to match the too-large earrings. From what I could tell by the girl’s dress code there was a lot of shoplifting going on at the mall.

  The boys fell into two distinct categories; gangster and emo. Those boys not wearing baggies or Oakland tuxedos and trying to look hard as fuck were clad in skinny jeans and concert T-shirts belonging to bands I’d never heard of and didn’t want to. Most of the boy’s hair looked like it took longer to arrange than the girl’s.

  The average age of the girls looked to be sixteen, with many looking much younger than that. How valid is a school I.D., anyway? The average age of the boys looked to be a little older; maybe nineteen or twenty. Not a good combination. The music emanating from inside the Yucatan was so loud I could barely hear, and we weren’t even inside yet.

  “I hope none of the kids recognize me,” Karen remarked as we strolled up to the doorman. “I’d hate to see any of my students.”

  “Why not?” I said. “Maybe you could score some fashion tips.”

  Karen didn’t need any. She was indeed pretty enough, and wearing a contoured blouse and hip-gripping skirt. Since she was built like a burlap bag full of bobcats, she needed fashion tips from one of those pups like Beyoncé needed voice lessons.

  “I have a favor to ask,” I said to her. “Can I have your car keys?”

  “Why?”

  “I have my reasons.”

  “Okay…I guess.” She handed me her Subaru keys.

  “There’s another thing; if I tell you to do something, do it. No questions and no delay. Got it?”

  “Are we in danger?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “What’s this about?”

  “You asked me once about the glamorous life of a private detective. Here’s your opportunity to experience it firsthand.”

  “Should I be scared?”

  “Nothing to be scared of yet. That time comes, I’ll let you know.”

  “That’s comforting,” she said.

  The doorman, a large Hispanic man with a braid going all the way down his back, put out his hand as we approached. He was wearing a black windbreaker with the words SECURITY emblazoned in yellow across the back. Two similarly dressed men with hand-held metal detectors were scanning each underage patron before they entered the club.

  “Ain’t you a little old for youth night?” he said to me.

  “My name’s Means,” I said. “Big Al Quintana is expecting me.”

  “Right. He mentioned he had a guest coming. Go on in. Big Al’s behind the bar.” The doorman didn’t collect a cover-charge from us, to the chagrin of the kids we’d cut in front of. We also skipped the metal-detection, which was a good thing because I was packing.

  I took Karen’s arm and elbowed past the throngs of youth. Once inside I could actually feel the music’s base vibrating my bones, almost the way an incoming mortar strike or IED did when I was deployed. Colored lights and strobes made mincemeat of my night vision.

  We made our way to the back of the club. I located Al Quintana behind the bar. There were two other bartenders along with him, feverishly serving brightly-colored drinks to the stacks of kids lining up for them. I signaled and Al acknowledged. He patted one of the other bartenders on the shoulder and came out from behind the bar to shake my hand.

  “Hi, Chance,” Quintana said. He had to put his lips almost in my ear to be heard. His eyes were on Karen, though. “Let’s go to the office; we can talk there.” I nodded; it’s all I could do given the decibel levels.

  Quintana led us through the Yucatan’s vacant kitchen and to a door he unlocked with a key. He motioned us inside and closed the door after us.

  Once the office door was closed the music quieted to almost inaudible levels. I was grateful.

  “One of the conditions my uncle insisted on when we installed the sound system and dance floor was the office had to be sound-proofed,” he said, anticipating my question.

  “I like your uncle already,” I said, rubbing my ears. Quintana gestured to some seats on one side of a larg
e desk. He sat down on the other side. Very officious.

  “You didn’t tell me you were bringing a date,” Quintana said.

  “This is my friend Karen,” I said, making introductions. “I hope you don’t mind I brought her along?”

  “Mind? I wish I had friends like your friend Karen,” he said, taking her hand. He held it a little too long. She didn’t say anything. She smiled, but kept a wary glint in her eye.

  Quintana was wearing a skin-tight, black, V-neck T-shirt. He still had a gold chain around his neck, but had traded the gold earring he sported the night we met on the Track for a large diamond stud. He was smothered in cologne, and his hair and goatee were far too black for a man his age to not be freshly dyed.

  Karen and I sat down. Quintana opened the desk’s top drawer and withdrew a spiral notebook.

  “She’s cool?” Quintana asked, thrusting his chin at Karen.

  “Anything you can say, she can hear,” I said. He nodded and tuned to his notebook.

  “DeShawn Deandre Bullock,” he began. “Alias, ‘Drop-Dead’ Bullock. African-American male, age thirty-seven. Stands six-feet, one inches tall, weighs one-hundred and ninety pounds, according to his last arrest and booking entry. Born and raised in Oakland. Gang affiliation; he’s a Ghost Town boy.”

  Ghost Town referred to the Foster/Hoover District of West Oakland. Ghost Town was west of the MacArthur Maze, and one of the most blighted and dangerous neighborhoods in the continental United States. Ghost Town’s crime rate was infamously abysmal enough to be once featured on 60 Minutes, and the district had resisted all law enforcement and community efforts to civilize it. The gangs who roamed Ghost Town ranked among the most violent in America.

  “What’s he been down for?”

  “Bullock’s been down for transportation and sales of narcotics, assault with a deadly weapon, and pimping and pandering, but he hasn’t served time in years. He has multiple arrests for murder, attempted murder, robbery, sexual assault, and several counts of aggravated mayhem, but no convictions.”

  “Nobody willing to testify,” I said. “Too scared.”

  “Nobody alive to testify,” Quintana said. “Too dead. It’s how he earned the name ‘Drop-Dead’ Bullock.”

  Being arrested for mayhem didn’t mean DeShawn Bullock had over-imbibed on Saint Patrick’s Day. Mayhem referred to California Penal Code section 203, which outlaws the criminal removal of another person’s body part. Slicing off an ear or poking out someone’s eye is mayhem. Aggravated mayhem, California Penal Code section 205, referred to mayhem occurring during deliberate torture. Cutting off a dude’s thumb during the course of a knife fight is mayhem. Tying a dude to a chair and laughing at him while you cut it off is aggravated mayhem.

  Mayhem, especially aggravated mayhem, is a common way for a pimp to keep his bitches in line. I never met a pimp in Oakland who wasn’t good for both kinds.

  “What’s Bullock’s last known address?”

  “He’s currently not on probation or parole, so his current address isn’t in the system. Word is, he’s laying his head on Maddux Drive, near 98th and Edes Avenues.” I noted the address. I always carry a small notebook and pen; cop habit.

  “How do you know?”

  “Big Al has his sources,” he grinned. “That’s all I’m going to say. But my informant is very reliable.”

  “Good enough for me,” I told him.

  “What are you going to do with Drop-Dead Bullock’s address?” Quintana asked.

  “Going to have a sit-down chat with Mr. Bullock,” I said. “Ask him if he triggered Marisol Hernandez? Or had her triggered?”

  Quintana leaned back in his chair and grinned. “You’re going to walk up to his door, knock, and politely say, ‘Hello Mr. Bullock. Did you kill a whore named Marisol Hernandez?’”

  “Something like that.”

  “You got some pair of balls, Chance.”

  “While I’m there,” I continued, “I’ll also ask him if he iced a B-girl named Holly?”

  “Why stop there?” Quintana asked. “What about the hit on you?”

  “I may inquire about that as well. That question is personal.”

  Quintana’s grin widened. “You figure Bullock will answer your questions?”

  “I can be persuasive.”

  “I witnessed your methods of persuasion,” he said, “on Bancroft Avenue last Friday night. You persuaded a couple of heavy-duty shooters into a premature grave.”

  “Their call, not mine.”

  “I’m not criticizing,” Quintana said. “Two less fuckheads for me to deal with.”

  I stood up and extended my hand. Karen stood up with me. “Thanks for the scoop, Al.”

  Quintana took my hand and shook it. “No problem. Please forget where you got it.”

  “Forget what?” It was my turn to grin.

  “When do you plan to pay Bullock a visit?” he asked me.

  “I’m not sure yet. I’ve got a lot on my plate this week. It’ll be soon, though.”

  “Let me know when you make your social call to Drop-Dead,” he said. “If you want, I can go along with you. Back your play.”

  “I appreciate the offer, but it’s probably best I speak with Bullock privately.”

  “He’s a dangerous customer, Chance. He might not be alone. You’ll need back-up.”

  “I’ll keep it in mind.”

  “Give me a call,” he said. I told him I would.

  “It was nice to meet you, Mr. Quintana,” Karen said.

  “The pleasure was all mine,” he said. “Say, what’s the hurry? You two want a drink or something before you go?”

  “Some other time,” I chuckled. “This isn’t our crowd.”

  “I don’t mind the kids so much,” he said.

  Quintana opened the door and once again the sound hit us like a wave. I took Karen’s arm and we jostled our way to the entrance, leaving Quintana standing in the doorway of his office. Before we got past the dance floor, I saw him withdraw his cellular phone from his pocket and go back into the office, closing the door behind him.

  When we cleared the club, and my hearing was functioning again, I said to her quietly, “Get into the passenger seat of my car. Then crawl into the back seat when we start moving.”

  “Can’t you wait until we get home,” she giggled.

  “If you don’t do exactly as I tell you, we may not get home at all.”

  She stopped giggling.

  When we arrived at the space where I’d parked my rented Ford, I made an elaborate production of opening the passenger door for Karen and closing it after she got in. I’m normally a courteous chap, but I had other motives. Then I got into the driver’s seat and fired up the engine.

  I drove out of the Yucatan’s parking lot and around the corner, north on Estudillo Avenue. Karen did as I told her. She scooted between the bucket seats and into the coupe’s rather small rear passenger compartment. As she completed this maneuver, her butt rubbed heavily against my right shoulder, neck, and face. I was going to complain, but when I turned my head around to take up the matter with her, two things shut me up; one: I could see up her skirt; two: she was wearing a thong. I elected to abort the complaint.

  I stopped the car in the middle of the street. “Drive,” I commanded her as I slid over into the passenger seat. She immediately began to climb back into the front; this time into the driver’s compartment.

  “Stay at the speed limit. Go under the freeway overpass and remain on Estudillo Avenue. When you hit Lake Chabot Road, veer right. Keep your cell phone handy and wait for my instructions.” I opened the passenger door quickly and got out. “Go!”

  My gray Ford drove away without me. I ran as fast I could to the cover of a closed coffee shop a couple of doors down from the Yucatan. Since the parking lot was in the rear, nobody saw me. I crept along the business front until I reached the alley, leading to the back of the coffee shop, and ducked into it.

  I dialed Karen’s cell phone as I watched a b
urgundy-colored Nissan pull out of the Yucatan’s parking lot and proceed north along the same route as my Mustang. There were two occupants in the Nissan, but I couldn’t tell much more than that in the dim light.

  I jumped the fence between the coffee shop and the Yucatan’s parking lot. I landed behind a row of parked cars. I wasn’t noticed. I was at the end of the lot, where there was limited lighting, and the line of underage patrons waiting to get into the club had their backs to me.

  Karen answered my call as I unlocked her Subaru and got in. I had to move the driver’s seat back all the way; a reminder of how much shorter Karen was.

  “Chance,” she said with tension in her voice. “What the hell is going on? I’m officially frightened now.”

  “You can’t be,” I said. “I haven’t given you permission to be scared yet.”

  I fired up the Subaru and drove out of the lot slowly, to not attract attention. Once I hit Estudillo I stepped on the gas. Within a minute or so I could see the taillights of the Nissan up ahead, and the Ford’s taillights ahead of them. As I expected, there was no other traffic on Lake Chabot Road.

  Lake Chabot Road is a winding, narrow, unlit, two-lane, street which snakes its way around Lake Chabot and into Castro Valley, ending in a T-intersection at Castro Valley Boulevard. Most of the route is densely forested and inclines steeply. The area is part of the East Bay Regional Park District, and patrolled irregularly by a small force of EBRPD officers who cover similarly remote areas throughout the Bay Area. In many portions of Lake Chabot Road, the street is covered in gravel and in need of repair.

  “You still with me?” I asked my phone.

  “I’m here,” Karen’s voice answered. “There’s a car behind me, Chance. I’m worried.”

  “Don’t be. I see you, and I see the car behind you. I’m coming up behind it. Can you see me in your mirror yet?”

  “Yes.”

  “Listen to me carefully, Karen. When I tell you, I want you to stop the car. When I say ‘stop,’ I mean I want you to stomp on the brakes. Stop the vehicle as quickly as you can. Stay in the middle of your lane; don’t pull over. Then I want you to duck down on the floor of the car. Do you understand?”