Not Forgotten

by George Lee Miller

I hadn’t expected a compliment and wondered what was really behind the introduction. “Thank you, Mr. Allison. I try not to let my clients down.”

  “Tell you what. Call me Pat,” he said. “I hear you take on the lost causes.”

  “I always root for the underdog,” I said.

  Allison smiled and motioned Danny and Sosa into a tighter circle like we were members of a secret society. “Nick here saved a man from death row,” he said and paused for effect. “That’s right. That apartment fire that killed twenty people on the east side. The local police nailed the wrong man. Blamed it on that ex-football player from Texas. The one who was drafted by the Redskins but never played a down. What was his name?”

  “Skeeter Davis,” I said. “He lost his arm in a car accident before training camp.”

  “That’s right. Ol’ Skeeter. But you tracked down the real killer.”

  “That’s about it,” I said. That wasn’t it. The investigation had nearly killed me, but I didn’t want to get into the details.

  “How did you know the police had the wrong man? The DA told me all the evidence pointed to ol’ Skeeter,” Allison said, like he was a close personal friend of the district attorney.

  “The evidence doesn’t always point to the truth,” I said, trying to sound more practical than philosophical.

  Patrick smiled at this. He seemed to have more on his mind than friendly chitchat. “You do believe in following the law, now don’t you?” he drawled. He focused his watery eyes on me.

  “Unless it convicts an innocent man,” I said.

  Patrick seemed to like my answer. “Well, there you go. We are in the company of a bon-i-fide hero.” Patrick rolled the word off his tongue and touched the brim of his Stetson.

  Being enlisted, I’d never been saluted, and the gesture gave me a strange feeling. I studied his face to see if he was serious or making a joke. There was a twinkle in his rheumy eyes, but his expression was hard to read because his mustache covered his lips.

  “Mr. Allison is the one who recommended you,” Sosa interjected.

  “Thank you,” I said. He was sizing me up. Maybe protecting Sosa was a test for a job working for him. “I do personal security on the side. My main business is private investigations.” I produced a new business card. The logo design was simple—two crossed swords below the Marine Corps motto. He glanced at it briefly.

  Danny reached over and snagged my card. “Cool. What’s semper fi?” Danny smirked, pronouncing it semper fee. He had definitely had more than his share of the free drinks.

  I smiled. If those words didn’t mean anything to him, I had nothing to say.

  “He was in the Marine Corps, Danny,” Pat said patiently. “Thank you for your service, Nick.” Pat seemed slightly embarrassed by his grandson.

  “Can’t say it was a pleasure, but I was happy to serve.” I had a complicated relationship to the military. I loved my brothers and the fight, but like most combat vets, I hated the mind-numbing bureaucracy. Patrick Allison knew a lot more about me than I knew about him, and that made me uncomfortable. I was also getting the feeling that his cowboy demeanor was all an act. I had grown up with authentic western men like my grandfather, and Patrick Allison’s cowboy image was just a little too polished.

  “See any action?” Danny said, eager for a war story. The kid was an idiot.

  “That’s what you do in the Marine Corps, Danny,” I said.

  “Is that where you got the…” He pointed to the scars on my forehead. He definitely had no manners. I smiled and nodded. I had had enough chitchat, and both Allisons were starting to get on my nerves.

  I turned to Sosa. “You ready, Mr. Sosa?” I caught him off guard. He seemed to be enjoying my confrontation with the Allison clan.

  “Oh, uh… no,” he stuttered, glancing around the room. “I still need to conclude my business with Marcus… Mr. Lopez. Excuse me. I’ll hit the pager when I’m ready.” He made a big show of shaking hands and thanking Patrick Allison for whatever deal they had struck, then he took off through the crowd. I nodded goodbye also.

  The old man took my hand and focused his watery green eyes on me. “Are you related to Otto Fischer?” he asked.

  “He’s my grandfather,” I said.

  “He’s a good man.”

  “I think so.” I didn’t mention several unfavorable stories that Grandpa told about the Allison family from the early pioneer days.

  “Your father was a good man too. Good sheriff. Did they ever find out who killed him?”

  “No,” I said. “No, they never did.”

  He seemed to be waiting for me to say more, hoping for some gossip that he could share with his hunting buddies. My father’s unsolved murder was the last thing I wanted to discuss with Patrick Allison.

  “How would you feel about working for me?” he asked.

  There it was. He was offering me a job. He had orchestrated the whole encounter. I had no reason to turn him down, but something about Patrick Allison put me on guard.

  “I’m trying to make it as an independent, but thanks for the offer.”

  “I’ll keep you in mind if I ever need your services,” he said. With no one around but the three of us, Patrick Allison seemed to shrink in size and energy level as if he’d been putting on a front for an audience and suddenly stepped backstage. He glanced at Danny and began to cough. He quickly covered his mouth with a white handkerchief he obviously kept close at hand in his suit coat pocket. It was a deep, lung-rattling cough that heavy smokers get. He held Danny’s elbow for support.

  I wasn’t sure whether to walk away or wait for him to finish. He held up his free hand for me to wait as if reading my mind. There was one more thing he wanted to say. I waited, looking around to see if anyone else noticed. No one did, or they pretended not to. The cough shook the old man to his core.

  “My grandson could use someone like you around,” he finally said, and wiped crimson spit from his chin and carefully trimmed mustache.

  I nodded. I didn’t know what to say to that. Did he want me to babysit Danny on weekends?

  “Come on out to the ranch sometime, and Danny can show you around.”

  I’d heard about his ranch. It was one of the biggest in the state and had a reputation for exotic trophy animals and extreme privacy.

  “Love to,” I said. Talking to Allison put me on alert, like I should be on my toes, but I didn’t know why. As long as we were being friendly, I decided to ask him why he was there. “Why are you backing Lopez?” I asked. “Isn’t he the enemy?”

  The old man’s eyes narrowed. He studied me for several moments. I held his gaze, feeling a little uncomfortable—like I was waiting for a palm reader to give me some bad news about my future.

  “There are a lot of ways to back a candidate,” he said. I waited for him to explain, but he was finished. He seemed to have found what he was searching for. “Take care now,” he said.

  I got the feeling I had been dismissed, so I walked to the front door, thinking the first chance I got, I would ask Grandpa about Patrick Allison.

  Danny followed me like a lost puppy. He carried a drink with lime that was probably pure vodka in one hand and an empty cup in the other. His bottom lip bulged with an inch of brown snuff. Away from Patrick, he was indulging his vices.

  “Granddad likes you,” he said, like he expected me to be flattered. He took a big drink of vodka, making up for lost time. He spit into his empty cup. “I work out at Lucky’s gym on the west side. Mixed martial arts. Just amateur. I started in college. Keeps me in shape.” The band had quit playing and were packing up their instruments.

  “Good for you,” I said. “Everyone needs a hobby.”

  “Ever do any fighting? MMA, I mean? Do they do that in the Corps?” He said “Corps” like it was some kind of frat house where they offered intermural sports. Snuff juice dribbled down his chin.

  I knew Lucky’s gym and worked out there regularly, but I didn’t sh
are that with Danny. I needed to locate Sosa and get the hell out of there. I was getting paid, but I’d rather get a root canal than spend time in a too-tight tux chatting with the privileged class.

  Before I could locate Sosa, Danny said: “I’d like to get a piece of that,” and made a hole in his fist and pumped it up and down over his middle finger.

  I saw the leer in his expression and followed his gaze to Sylvia. She was turned sideways to us about thirty feet way. The stylish cut of her dress accentuated her curves and made me excited and protective at the same time.

  Just as I was about to reprimand the kid’s behavior, Marcus Lopez stepped up beside Sylvia and put his hand on the small of her back. He whispered something in her ear, which produced a laugh from her. I couldn’t tell whether she touched his arm to push his hand away from her ass or if she was flirting with him. I couldn’t see the expression on her face. I saw the expression on his. I didn’t like it. She turned toward the bar and walked away.

  “Too bad,” Danny said, sounding truly disappointed. “She’s with Marcus.”

  “She’s my girlfriend,” I said more to myself than to Danny, still trying to process what I’d just seen.

  “You don’t want to mess with him. He’s Granddad’s lawyer.” Danny said it like he meant it, like he was talking about bad, bad Leroy Brown. His flushed cheeks lost some color, and he drew his lips tight. I’d heard Marcus was cutthroat in the courtroom, but Danny seemed to be talking about something more than judiciary tactics.

  “What’re you talking about?”

  “Just sayin’, you want him on your side.”

  Before I could press him on the issue, Sosa shouted at Marcus, “Esto no está terminado.” Whatever business deal Sosa wanted with Marcus hadn’t gone well.

  Sosa made a chopping movement with his right hand and stomped toward the door. His zip-up bootheels clicked on the marble tiles. He waved at me to follow. He had lost the happy animated look he wore when he was with Allison.

  “Gotta go, Danny. Nice talking with you.” I put two long strides between us.

  “Lucky’s gym, killer. I’m there on Mondays when you’re ready to mix it up,” Danny shouted.

  I waved without looking back. I had the nagging feeling that I would run into him again.

  Chapter Four

  The September night outside the convention center seemed even warmer than when I left it two hours ago. I always wondered how the first four generations of Fischers had survived without air conditioning in the Texas heat. I found the limo driver on the sidewalk chewing the fat with a group of his colleagues. I asked him to pull up to the curb and went back inside to collect Sosa. His hotel wasn’t far, and with any luck, I would be home by midnight. I was eager to finish the job so I could focus my attention on Sylvia. I was trying to decide whether to ask her about the encounter with Marcus or let it go. I wasn’t much good at letting things go.

  Danny’s reaction to Marcus bothered me. I had always thought of Sylvia’s boss as a pompous ass but never a dangerous man. Underneath the drunk frat-boy bravado, genuine fear crossed Danny’s face when Marcus entered the picture. Obviously, he was well connected to the Allison family, and Marcus had a particular hold over Danny.

  Sosa was ready to go and not in a talkative mood, which suited me just fine. The citizens for the environment had gotten bored and left right after the media had their sound bite for the ten o’clock news. The SAPD presence had dwindled down to two uniformed officers.

  Once Sosa was carefully belted into the back seat, I told the driver to take Commerce Street to St. Mary’s before making the U-turn to Market Street and driving back to the Westin hotel on the River Walk. I always followed all the safety protocols whether it was a level one job or a level ten. Bad guys keyed on patterns and obvious moves. Using a random route or changing plans mid-stream often meant the difference between life and death. One thing being in combat taught me was to be present. I was trying to adapt my combat training to the business of private investigations. The action part was a direct translation, but I needed work on my people skills.

  I checked the street behind us to make sure we weren’t being followed, then had the driver take another loop around the block. His downturned lips told me he didn’t like it, but as screwy as the night had been, I wanted to be sure. Sosa was on his second Marlboro and hadn’t said a word since leaving the party. I didn’t want to pry into his business, but I was curious about Marcus Lopez.

  “Your business deal didn’t work out?” I asked, trying to sound offhanded.

  “It’s complicated. The deal was to provide pipe and equipment for Allison’s leases in Edwards County. Marcus Lopez wanted to renegotiate.” He forced smoke through his nostrils.

  “What would Marcus Lopez have to do with it?”

  “Marcus and Patrick are partners,” he said.

  The limo stopped at his hotel. I didn’t have time to push him for more information. The street entrance to the hotel was quiet for a Friday night. There was one minivan with a family of four waiting for the valet attendant. They stood on the sidewalk dressed alike in shorts and Hawaiian shirts, looking dazed from a long airplane ride. The main foot traffic was on the river side of the building. This time of night the River Walk was always jammed with tourists and active-duty military personnel on weekend passes from one of several nearby bases.

  The bellhop approached the door, but I beat him to it. I wasn’t taking any chances. I wanted to be sure I escorted Mr. Sosa safely to his room and into the hands of his regular security team and the mistress he said would be waiting.

  The driver popped the trunk and handed the bellhop a single black leather suitcase and a matching carry-on bag. Mr. Sosa traveled stylish and light. The bellhop took the luggage and hustled toward the hotel entrance.

  “Gracias, Mr. Fischer. You have fulfilled your obligation,” Sosa said when I let him out of the back seat. He offered me a wad of Ben Franklins and shook my hand.

  “You paid for the full service,” I told him. “That means door to door.”

  “Please, I can take it from here,” he said. “I will wire money to—”

  A blast of compressed air cut him off in midsentence, punctuated by a hollow thunk. Blood sprayed my face and flooded Sosa’s shirt. He spun to the ground with a loud groan.

  I pulled my .45 and covered Sosa with my body. From the amount of blood, I knew the shot came from a heavy caliber rifle. The minimal sound signaled a serious suppressor that masked the shooter’s location and told me he was a professional.

  The air blast came again. The bullet took a bite out of the retaining wall, showering us with small chunks of concrete. From the angle, I guessed the shooter was in the parking garage across the street.

  “Run!” I yelled at the family in Hawaiian shirts.

  They took off for the street corner. I pulled Sosa toward the curb and opened the front door of the limo. The driver had wedged himself under the dashboard, shaking like a leaf.

  “Focus,” I told him. His wide eyes tilted up. I kept my voice even and calm. “Sosa’s hit. I need you to drive him to the emergency room.”

  “Shit, no. C-call an ambulance,” he stuttered.

  “He’ll be dead before they get here.” Another shot hit the roof of the limo and sounded like a hammer hitting sheet metal.

  “They’s still shootin’ at us,” he stammered with an accent I’d not heard him use when he picked us up. He squeezed further under the dashboard.

  “Get up and drive,” I ordered. I set my pistol on the sidewalk and lifted Sosa into the front seat. The bullet had hit him in the left shoulder. His shirt and coat were soaked crimson-red, and blood flowed out of him like water from a broken pipe. He still had a pulse, but his short, shallow breathing told me that he wouldn’t last long. I’d seen it happen more times than I cared to remember.

  “You wanna be here when the shooter crosses the street?” I reached over Sosa and slapped the driver’s head. “Get
the fuck up.”

  “He-he’s comin’ here?” The driver scrambled behind the wheel.

  I didn’t know what the shooter’s next move was, but I needed to get Sosa out of harm’s way and to the emergency room before I dealt with it. I didn’t want to lose a client.

  “One second,” I commanded while I stripped off my tux jacket and wrapped it as tightly as I could around the leak in Sosa’s chest. “Put pressure on this,” I instructed the driver. He reluctantly put his hand out. I pushed it down hard over the coat. “Pressure,” I repeated, “or he won’t make it. Do you know where you’re going?”

  He nodded and accelerated away from the curb before I could slam the door shut.

  Another whoosh of air. The sidewalk exploded near my feet. I dove behind the next parked car. Whoever was behind the rifle was taking his time and placing his shots—a professional using a rifle with serious noise suppression technology.

  A city bus lumbered toward me. I waited until it was almost directly in front of the hotel, then dashed across the street. Another shot hit the street bricks. This time I saw a flicker of light that must have been the muzzle flash. It came from the top floor of the parking garage and looked more like the flash of a cigarette lighter than a muzzle blast from a high-powered rifle.

  I squeezed off three quick rounds in the shooter’s direction. His ultra-quiet weapon hadn’t brought an SAPD response, but I knew the booming explosions from my .45 definitely would. I sprinted to the garage’s car exit. Sirens approached from more than one direction.

  Tires squealed, and a vehicle descended from the parking garage’s upper level. I paused behind the automated ticket booth. If the shooter came this way, he was a dead man. The engine noise receded. I heard a final squeal, then acceleration. The vehicle was headed to the Commerce Street exit on the opposite side of the building.

  I jumped the parking barrier and sprinted across the ground floor, hoping to have a shot or at least catch a glimpse of the shooter’s license plate.

  Instead, I ran headlong into four howling SAPD squad cars with flashing emergency lights. A spotlight hit me in the face, and a burly beat cop drew his service weapon and trained it on my chest.