Blood of the Albatross

by Ridley Pearson

  “Show me.”

  “Half now, half in the morning.”

  The wisp of a man smiled. Chu ran his own tongue across his teeth, wondering what a mouth like that felt like—jagged little brown plugs, looking like a city skyline. Freddie said, “What’s the address?”

  ***

  “What do we do this for?”

  “You’re bummed out, Jaybone, don’t take it out on the band.”

  “We bust our hump up there. Do these people give a shit? Look at them. The place is packed, everybody getting drunk and trying to get laid.”

  “What else is there? I haven’t had some leg in over a week.”

  “I’m serious!”

  “So am I.”

  “No. I mean it. I’m serious.”

  “Listen, Jay. On any other night you would think this is great, okay? That’s the truth. We’ve got a full house, lots of nice T and A, those two over there have been staring at us for the last ten minutes and giggling. You’re just pissed off.”

  But Jay had his dreams. He knew he had passed the big three-oh, was still unmarried, still making fifty bucks a night. Here he was, doing the same old thing, still waiting for the big break. He’d lost Leith, God only knows why; he’d thrown Linda to the dogs; now Marlene was sleeping with Captain Nazi.

  Jocko was right. It was Marlene. Any other night, it would have seemed like a great crowd. The forty-five had yet to reach all the stations, and he had received word that some of the smaller stations were playing it often, so who knew, maybe there was still a chance. He was usually optimistic. He believed in his own abilities and the power of perseverance. You could make anything happen if you were willing to work for it hard enough, long enough. But doubt crept in at times. And tonight was one of those times. As a performer, he tried to avoid acknowledging those nights, fearing he might eventually throw in the towel. He knew it was a delicate balance: you had to live in the real world, but with your own sense of what was “real”—your own goals and targets—and you couldn’t let anything beat you down.

  Jay spotted the man by accident. The man he had seen on Holst’s video was sitting at the bar drinking a clear drink, one eye on Jay. He couldn’t believe it! Their eyes met, and Jay immediately started moving toward the bar. The man looked heavier in person, and he had a pushed-in face and a big nose and was sweating. Damn, it was crowded. Jay, not particularly tall, stood on his toes. The guy was gone, his drink empty. Then he caught a glimpse of him: the back of his head moving quickly toward the front door. “Hey!” Jay shouted. A few heads turned. A pretty girl smiled at him and stepped in his way. “Excuse me,” he said, and brushed past her. “Hi,” she said warmly. His quarry made it to the door and disappeared. Jay pushed past the remaining people and popped open the door. It was an unusually warm night. The man was jogging into the parking lot. “Hey,” Jay called again. He began to run, even as he thought, What am I doing? What am I supposed to say? The man reached a beat-up car, yanked the door open, and jumped in. He backed out quickly and drove away. Jay couldn’t read the license plate because the guy had kept the lights off. The car turned left at the end of the lot, passed some parked cars, left again, and headed back toward the club, toward the exit, with its lights still off. “Hey,” Jay hollered. The clunker bounced over the curb and pulled out into traffic. The lights came on too far away for Jay to read the plate. Gone. Jay stopped at the edge of the parking lot out of breath.

  When he walked back into the bar the band was on stage waiting for him. He pushed his way through the crush of bodies and jumped up on stage. A couple of people clapped because they knew the show was about to start.

  ***

  The vocal monitor amp blew on the fifth song. Jay could hear his voice in the mains, but the monitors were gone. He glanced at Jocko, who shrugged in the middle of a complicated drum fill. Jocko was like that: he had the coordination of three people. Jay sang a mean version of Stevie Vaughn’s “Cold Shot.” The last line was, “We let our love go bad,” and Jay sang the line with feeling. The crowd danced slowly to the number. It was a good night suddenly. Seeing the guy had changed everything. On any other night, just losing the monitors would have wrecked Jay. But not now. Something was cooking, and Jay was involved. He felt as if he’d walked into a Hitchcock movie: fighting through the crowd to reach the guy; the guy disappearing, roaring out of the parking lot; Jay empty-handed. No doubt about it, something was up. The rest of the set went well. Jay could feel the band’s enthusiasm grow as his own increased. Playing music was great that way: all the band members felt the presence of the other players—especially the leader—and when you leaned into it, everyone would follow, and all of sudden it sounded like twenty guys, a wall of sound, churning out an infectious beat, good strong melody, and dazzling harmonies. The dance floor filled. They felt it. The music was hot.

  The set ended. Jay wiped the sweat onto the sleeve of his shirt and set his guitar down.

  “What do we do?”

  “I get my stereo amp. Can I use the van?”

  “Sure. You mind if I hang? I think I’ve got a date with that redhead.”

  “Go for it,” Jay said as Jocko walked away. “Hey, Romeo?” Jocko turned around. “Keys?” Jay asked.

  The night sky, bleached by the city lights, showed only a handful of stars, but across the way Jay could see a jet pass behind the Space Needle. It looked beautiful. Jay punched in the cassette and listened to an old Stevie Wonder cut.

  ***

  Mark Galpin’s assistant had great respect for his boss. Who else would still be at work at eleven o’clock? The Skipper was about as dedicated as they come, and as loyal to his agents as one could ask.

  The telex had come through less than an hour ago, “eyes only” for the director. It had been decoded by Galpin’s desktop computer. Because of his habit of grinding his teeth, Galpin appeared nervous to many of the agents that didn’t know him well. He maintained the image of the whip-cracking superior, which was just as well. His assistant knew better. The real Mark Galpin was the man who displayed the color photo of his family proudly in the center of his desk, the Skipper, who loved a fifteen-knot wind on the weekends and water to maneuver in. He had a heart of gold, and right now his concern was for Roy Kepella.

  “I’m going to share this with you, Bristol,” Galpin told the man. “It doesn’t leave this room.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I have reason to suspect that Roy Kepella has been set up to drain the Agency of classified information. It is a reverse sting, in effect, and if it’s true, then we have a priority problem on our hands. Clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Just between the two of us, Roy Kepella is a good friend of mine. I’d hate for him to take the fall on this one. But that’s how it will go down if we don’t locate him immediately. I want to give extra time to this one. I want you to check his computer logs and see what, if any, information he might have requested in the days just prior to his suspension. I want you to get a few of the more closed-mouth agents combing the streets for him. I ran Parker and Carter out to his apartment, and he’s not around. They have it staked out, but I don’t have a lot of hope on that. Check the gambling bars. I know, I know,” Galpin said in response to his assistant’s curious expression. “We may not know of all the places, but find out. Roy likes cards. Check around at security agencies and private detectives. He might have applied for a temporary job at one of them. He did that the last time we suspended him. I don’t want our hand tipped if we locate him. Contact me immediately. And remember, when you’re sending agents onto the street, use the newest we have. Roy knows the Agency well. He can spot any of us three blocks away. Maintain a low profile and put everyone on this we can afford. The last thing we need is a mess like this. The sooner this is over the sooner we can get back to business as normal. Make that clear to the men. Overtime shifts are available until we locate Kepella. Have Walters bring me an updated schedule the minute he has it. I want to increase our manpower by twenty-fi
ve percent minimum, and I want the schedule tonight.”

  Special Agent Bristol kept up with Galpin, his pencil running across the page as he furiously took notes.

  “Have you got all that?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “We’ve handled worse than this before. We’ve worked and eaten with this man for over eight years. We ought to know him well enough to find him quickly. I’m putting you in charge of coordination.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “So if anyone gets a bright idea, go with it. All ideas run through you; you report directly to me.”

  “Do we know who he is working with, sir?”

  “No. Washington is working on it. That’s all we know. No, Bristol, I think we should assume we’re on our own here. We don’t want the boys in Washington thinking we have our thumbs up our butts, now do we?”

  Bristol shook his head. “No, sir, but it seems to me we have very little to go on.” He read from his list, trying to show his boss the assignment was a tough one. “Gambling halls and the like. We bust any of those we find. He’s not in his apartment, so he could have left town. We’ll put some agents on that, but you know how long it takes to check the various shifts at the trains, buses, and airports. That’s a full-time job in and of itself—”

  “I don’t want to hear how tough this is, Bristol. I want some results. Now if you have any questions I’d be happy to answer them, otherwise…”

  “Right.” Bristol hurried from the office.

  ***

  Roy Kepella looked up at the clock behind the bar, suddenly frantic. He had killed forty minutes drinking. He paid for his three drinks and hurried outside. He had only intended to settle his nerves with a quickie. Instead he had obliterated his nerves with three long ones. He reached Becker’s apartment just as a jet flew overhead. He climbed the fire escape carefully and slowly, and still reached the top floor out of breath. The window latch opened easily with his penknife—he slipped the blade between the two pieces of wood, pushed gently, and rocked the old-fashioned catch out of the way. The window stuck about eighteen inches open, and rather than get noisy, he stuffed himself through and into the apartment.

  He stepped on a plant and squished it. The place was like a forest. He clicked on his small penlight and wormed his way past a dozen more plants. Kitchen was a mess. Three envelopes on the table, all addressed to Jay Becker. He rifled a few drawers. Salvation Army utensils: no two forks matched. Same with the pans. Becker liked spaghetti, tuna, cereal. The icebox had veggies and something called tofu in it. Half-gallon of milk. Haagen-Dazs vanilla Swiss almond, half gone.

  A cheap desk had papers in it. Bills mostly. Pink notices. Credit due, balance due. A bunch of papers on The Rocklts, including a pile of the posters he had seen on the lamppost, but with no dates filled in. He found an old pipe that smelled like old pot—hadn’t been smoked in a long time. Then he saw the key he was looking for, in a pile of change on a dresser by the door. He pocketed the key. It looked like Becker had installed a police barricade bar earlier in the day: there was still sawdust on the floor. Kepella continued toward the couch, passing some dirty laundry on a chair. Below, a car honked loudly. An empty bag of chips lay discarded on the coffee table. Empty beer can. The couch had stains on it. Behind the bookshelf—behind the couch—the bed was unmade, the sheets clean. A nice-looking stereo sat alongside an impressive record collection. The stuff looked fancy enough. A photo over the bed showed a guy in a body suit crossing a finish line on a bicycle. It was Becker, younger by a good ten years. A dozen sports trophies stood tarnished and dust-covered on top of the bookshelf—sailing and bicycling.

  The elevator made a loud pop as it stopped. Kepella heard the cage open. He wondered how he had missed hearing it start up. Probably during the car honking, he thought. A key in the door. He started for the window, stopped, and pushed himself back into the corner by the bed. Despite his years on the Bureau, he had never done anything like this. His heart was pounding. Christ, he thought, the old ticker’s gonna blow.

  The door opened. A blade of light from the hallway’s bare bulb cut across the forest of plants. Kepella didn’t hear the door close. Becker had left it open. That was a good sign: he obviously didn’t plan on staying long. Kepella held his breath, then let it out slowly, trying to calm down. Becker rounded the corner, having not turned on a light. He came straight for Kepella. He reached for the lamp by the bed, and paused…

  Kepella made his move. He leaped to his feet and mowed Becker down. Becker screamed at the top of his lungs, reached out, and tripped the intruder. The guy fell hard. Becker rose and dove onto the Kepella’s back. “You son of a bitch,” he said, pounding on the man’s back.

  Kepella rolled in the dark. He kicked wildly and felt Becker fall off. His mind was working well now. He stood and hurried toward the door, taking a split second to knock all the change off the dresser, knowing it would give him a chance to slip the key beneath the door later, which, if he was lucky, would not tip Becker to the fact that he had taken it in the first place. He ran to the dimly lit stairwell and took it in leaps and bounds.

  Jay wasn’t about to follow. He sat up and watched the man rush out the door. His neck hurt where the kick had landed. He rubbed it. That certainly hadn’t been the Chinese dude. Too soft. In fact, even in the darkness the intruder had looked for just a second like the man with the pushed-in face. The man at Charlie’s. Was his mind grabbing onto that image? he wondered. Or had it really been the face from the video? He turned on all the lights in the place and looked around quickly. Nothing missing. Fear suddenly struck him and he hurried. This was no longer fun. He was frightened and alone. Quickly, he dismantled the stereo and tucked the amp under an arm. Heading out the door, he took a last look around and saw the open window. His heart jumped. He set down the amp, hurried to the window, and closed and latched it. He noticed the crushed fern and felt a quick stab of pain in his heart, greater than the pain he had felt in his neck. He was mad. He locked the door behind himself and checked it. Twice.

  He picked up the amp and entered the elevator.

  The band was waiting on stage.

  29

  Kepella, excited from his encounter with Becker, headed straight for a bar. He sucked down two quick shots of Popov, then headed for Burt and Bane’s gun shop down by the water front. Burt and Bane’s stayed open until midnight, and besides selling about every weapon ever made, the store also had a key cutting machine in the back. Seventy-five cents—a little high—and you could copy your key.

  He passed the bow-and-arrow rack, the camouflage coveralls, the Army-surplus boots, the line of counters displaying dozens of handguns. Beyond the displays, hundreds of rifles, single-shot bolt-action to semi-automatic clip, were lined up, looking like a row of marching soldiers.

  The Shilshole key took about two minutes to copy.

  Phase two of his plan involved some real detective work. Kepella enjoyed this more and more now. This was what an FBI agent was supposed to do. She had left him a phone number, which either meant she didn’t live on the boat or she somehow had a phone on board. He drove to the Shilshole parking lot, took out his binoculars, and stepped into the pay phone booth. He left the door open so the light wouldn’t go on, because the light would interfere with his view of the ship through the binoculars. She answered on the third ring.

  “Marlene?”

  “Speaking.”

  He liked the sound of her accent. “This is… your friend. I wonder if we might be able to arrange a meeting this evening. Very short. I’m sorry to call so late.”

  “I was not asleep. Yes. Where you would like to meet?”

  “Where we met the first time… at the bar, that is. Say in about thirty minutes?” He knew it would take her about twenty minutes to drive to the Greenlake and park. He also assumed she would need at least ten minutes to get organized.

  “I may be a few minutes late, but yes, that sounds fine. See you there.”

  “Oh, Marlene?”


  “Yes?”

  “I hope you’ll have that little something for me.”

  “I will try, R—” She caught herself, stopping before she called him by name. “I cannot promise at this hour. Goodbye.”

  ***

  Kepella climbed back in the old bomb and drove up the hill to a set of worn stone steps that ascended into Golden Garden Park. He crept up the steps until he reached a hedge, and then sat down on the cold stone, training the binoculars on the The Lady Fine. The night air felt wonderfully warm to him, or perhaps it was the two shots of Papa. The ships looked so beautiful under the glow of the lamps lining the docks, their masts reaching into the night sky, tiny white lights flickering from the topmost points. Most of the ships were dark and quiet, but on one ship a party raged, people waving drinks and enjoying themselves. Seeing the party gave Kepella a pang. He had not been to a real party in how long? Before he had quit drinking. It had been his own idea—avoid temptation: deliver us from evil—and now, suddenly, he was painfully aware of his renewed drinking. He had started again. Goddamnit, he had started again. Even worse, he liked it. And he knew, for him, it was disaster. Guilt overwhelmed him. He felt his throat tighten, his stomach knot, and then the tears came. He sobbed pitifully. Guilt. Pain. Tears. He knew the booze would kill him. He was killing himself: a long, slow suicide. How could he be two people at the same time? How could he know and still keep drinking?

  But he couldn’t let the guilt destroy him. He wiped the tears from his face and raised the binoculars to his eyes. She hurried topside, straightened her clothing, and left the pier.

  He hurried down the stone steps, climbed into his car, and drove toward Shilshole, pulling off the road at the Vine Boat Ramp. Marlene drove away moments later in an AMC Eagle. Kepella waited a minute and drove into the parking lot.

  The duplicate key opened the security gate to Pier L without trouble. He strolled casually to the end of the dock, climbed aboard The Lady Fine, and stepped carefully down into the cockpit. It didn’t occur to him that the boat might be locked up. But it was. Using his penlight he looked for a key. He couldn’t find one. After several minutes of searching, he realized there was another cabin at the rear of the ship. It was unlocked. He let himself in. The sight of a tiny light blue two-piece hanging to dry made him smile. Marlene’s cabin.