by Tom Pitts
“I’m still burping the burrito I ate last night,” Peters said.
Allen’s face didn’t change, he only said, “I assure you this is quite different.”
“When’s the last time you saw Tremblay?” Carl asked.
“Honestly, I can’t quite recall. I’m certain it’s been years at this point. Why don’t you tell me what this is really about? Do you think Maurice has done something?”
Carl realized that was the first time anyone had referred to Tremblay as Maurice. “No, sir, we don’t. He just up and left before we could finish talkin’ to him. I think maybe a few questions occurred to us after we’d spoken. No fault of his. We just want to get a better picture.”
“Better picture of what?”
“I guess you could say he was a material witness at a crime scene.”
“Being an ex-police officer, you’d think he’d be aware of how delicate that can be.”
“You’d think so.”
They stood for a moment more. Carl and Peters on the sidewalk and Richard behind the gate. Then Richard said, “If there’s nothing more.”
“If we could leave you a number, in case you think of a way to get in touch with him.” He nudged Peters with his hand and Peters pulled out his wallet and slipped one of his cards through the gate.
Richard Allen took the card and said, very earnestly, “Of course, of course.”
Peters and Carl returned to their car and Richard Allen returned to his house.
Inside, Allen stood before the large man. The man said, “How come you didn’t let me deal with those cops?”
“Because subtlety and diplomacy are not your strong suits.” Allen let the confusion settle on the man’s face, then said, “I want you to call Quinn’s attorney and find out how that motherfucker got released. Ask him why, in God’s name, would he not inform me he was working on his case? Remind him of who pays his bills.”
***
The morning sun crawled into the sky while Steven and Teresa were still asleep in the woods. The light shot through the treetops in long narrow shafts. They were curled together on top of the same stump they’d found in the dark. It was cold. Although the sun was up, its warmth barely filtered through the tall trees to the stump where they lay in the shadows.
Steven woke up first, happy to find Teresa cocooned in front of him. He leaned on one elbow and admired her. He noticed the soft nape of her neck, her ears that had holes for piercing, but no earrings. Then he saw a bluish spot near the front of her neck. A bruise spotted with tiny scabs. Teresa had been shooting up in her neck. Steven wondered why anyone would do that.
He lay back beside her and pressed his hips against her. She stirred.
She reached back and felt he was hard. She gave him a squeeze and he pushed a little closer. She wiggled her hips and adjusted so his dick was pushed directly on the crack of her ass. Steven draped an arm over her shoulder and pulled her close.
There was rustling of leaves, footsteps. Steven’s stomach tightened. He shook Teresa then sat upright. The footsteps slowed, then stopped. Steven scanned the woods. Two vagrants had been tiptoeing up on them; they stood frozen, as though their stillness would camouflage their presence.
“What the fuck?” Steven said.
The two men didn’t move. Then Teresa sat up. “Fuck off!” she bellowed. Loud enough that birds lit from the trees. Both the men turned and scurried away in the brush.
“Fuckin’ assholes,” she said.
“What did they want?”
“To go through our pockets. To fuck us in the ass. Who knows? Fuckin’ scumbags. That’s why I stayed up almost the whole night keeping watch.”
“Sorry I passed out.”
She smiled at him. A maternal warmth to the look made him feel good.
“That’s all right. You musta been exhausted,” she said. “Your forehead looks better.”
He reached up and touched it. It was still sore, but he could feel the swelling had gone down. “I’m hungry,” he said before remembering he was broke.
“Not me. I feel like shit. I got to get well before we do anything.”
They tromped back the way they’d entered last night, easy navigating in the morning light. They left the patch of trees and walked toward a clearing where a public bathroom stood. It was cinderblock and yellow. Teresa said to wait and Steven did. Twenty minutes later she emerged with a soft smile on her face.
When Steven got close to her, he noticed that her facial muscles had slackened some, she didn’t look as good as when she’d woken up. He tried to get a peek at her neck to see if there were new track marks there, but he couldn’t tell.
“That’s better,” she said. Her voice was coarse and raspy. “Now we can eat.”
***
Tremblay’s cell phone vibrated. It was inches away from his face. Bent over the motel room’s bureau inhaling a fat line of the coke, he saw, even from that angle, it was Richard. He stood up straight, pinched his nose and said, “Motherfucker.”
When he answered, neither of them said hello.
Richard said, “How goes the search, old friend?”
“Just because I work for you doesn’t mean we’re friends.”
“So surly in the morning, Maurice. You could use a lesson in positive thinking.”
“I got a lead, I’m following it. What more can I say?”
“Well, you could tell me why two cops from Calistoga showed up at my front door asking questions about you.”
“Calistoga, huh?”
“Yes. I thought you said you’d take care of that. Were you careful about what you told them?”
“What kind of question is that? Of course I was careful. I didn’t tell ’em shit. That’s probably why they’re sniffing around.”
“Right, but why would they be sniffing around me? One of the things you’re supposed to be good at is making sure this kind of thing doesn’t happen.”
“What kind of thing? So they’re following a lead too. They’re not going to find anything.”
“They better not find him before we do. And he better not find her before you do.”
Tremblay recognized the tone. It was meant to intimidate, but Tremblay’s job was intimidation. He wrote the book on it.
“No problem, Ricardo. I told you, I’m on it.”
Richard told him to keep in touch. Tremblay set the phone down and began chopping up another line.
Chapter Thirteen
Quinn had no options. The dealer’s house on Treat Street was out of the question, probably sealed up with yellow crime scene tape and crawling with cops. Any clues that may have been there were gone. He could call Ricardo Alvarez and make some threats, but that would be tipping his hand. Besides, they’d be empty threats until he found the girl. He’d taken a chance going in that house and gambled that Steven and Teresa wouldn’t make it out. He lost and now they were lost, too.
She was strung out. He confirmed that much the moment he saw her. She looked like shit. All the money and private schools and nannies hadn’t helped her one goddamn bit. It was clear that it was more than speed she was into. All that paraphernalia in the house on Treat Street, the needles, the spoons. He smiled knowing how much that would upset her old man. He knew, too, that junkies had to have their drugs, so that was where he’d have to lie in wait. Eventually, she’d come out of the woodwork for whatever she was hooked on. He’d killed off her main source, now he’d have to find her next source. In a town like this, the sources were endless.
There were two faces he could look for on the street. Other than Teresa and Steven’s, that is. That scumbag, Filthy, who’d led him to the house on Treat, and that skinny fucker, Paul, who she walked up to the front door with. She’d left Paul waiting in the park for drugs or money. Paul would be looking for her, too.
Those scumbags had an advantage. They knew where she’d be going, where she’d try to cop her drugs. But if she already had drugs—if she took what she could from the dealer’s—then where would they l
ook?
Where the fuck do junkies socialize?
Two places: fucking donut shops and the goddamn methadone clinic. The first place he was going to look was the donut shop closest to the methadone clinic.
But before that he needed a new car, new credit cards, and cash. The Nissan had heat on it the moment he picked it up, and after last night’s activity, it was too much. It had to go.
He drove to an automated car wash and rolled through. He opened his leather bag and pulled on a pair of gloves as the car was dragged though the suds and sprays. While the car dried, he methodically went through it, removing any kind of evidence—cigarette butts, receipts, wiping the fingerprints from the wheel and the dash. Then he pulled the car up beside the giant vacuums, pumped in four quarters, and sucked out any hair follicles that may have floated off his head. When he was sure the car was evidence free, he got behind the wheel and headed down to Union Square.
Quinn drove back to the same parking garage he and Steven were in the day before. Perfect. He thought about switching cars yesterday, but his methods would have spooked the boy. It was an ideal location: underground, secluded, limited video surveillance. He wound the car down several levels and found a spot. He backed in and waited.
He’d picked a corner of the garage with several empty spaces around him. Opportunity would show itself. He watched a couple park and leave. Two was hard to manage. A woman with her child returned to their car. No babies, too messy. After about ten more minutes, he saw the perfect target. A wealthy-looking white woman approached with bags in both hands. She struggled while she found her key fob and remotely unlocked the doors on a new white Mercedes.
Quinn unzipped the bag sitting on the seat beside him and took out his knife. The .45 was already in his lap. He waited until the woman was at the back of her trunk and setting her bags down. He got out of the Nissan.
He walked quickly toward her with sweeping, long strides. She placed her bags inside the trunk. When he was within a few feet, he said, “Excuse me.”
“Oh,” she said, high pitched and off balance. “You scared me.”
Quinn held up the gun. Her eyes went wide.
“I’m robbing you,” he said. “Get in the trunk.”
She looked into the open trunk, at the bags she’d just placed there.
“It’s okay, it’s okay,” she said, telling herself or Quinn. He wasn’t really sure. “Take them, just take them.”
“I don’t want those. I want your money.”
She held out her purse. He snatched it from her hand and stuck it under his arm.
“Get in.”
“Please, please.”
He poked her hard in the ribs with the barrel of the gun. “You’ll be fine. Get in and wait five minutes, I’ll be gone, then you can pull the release there, get yourself out and tell your friends about your exciting day.” He shoved her a little. “Go on.”
“Please,” she said. “No.”
For a moment, he thought he’d have to shoot her right there, but then she climbed in. She moved slowly so he gave her another shove. The Mercedes bounced a bit on its shocks when she hit the bottom of the trunk.
He leaned into the trunk, her purse in one hand, the .45 in the other.
“I want you to tell me your ATM PIN and then I’m going to shut this trunk.” He lowered his voice, tried to reassure her. “You’re gonna wait five full minutes, then you can pull the cord there and get some air. You’re gonna be fine and all this will be over, okay?”
She nodded, quietly making little chirping sounds.
“Well,” he said, “what is it?”
“Nine-two-two-nine.”
“You wouldn’t lie to me would you?”
She shook her head.
Quinn stuck the pistol in his belt at the small of his back and took the knife from his back pocket. He made a gentle shushing sound to the woman like he was comforting her, putting her to sleep, and stuck the knife deep in her heart. He heard the muted, meaty tear of ribcage cartilage. She let out a high-pitched wheeze. He pushed hard on the knife, driving it deeper between her ribs, then he twisted it to the right. Her eyes pleaded and iced over.
He tore open one of her shopping bags and pushed it in front of her chest so the clothing inside would help absorb the blood, then wiped the blade back and forth on the clothes and returned it to his back pocket.
He shut the trunk, opened the driver’s side door, and tossed in the purse. He walked back to the Nissan, took his bag from the passenger seat, locked the doors, and walked back to the white Mercedes. In the driver’s seat, he examined the contents of the purse. Wallet, iPhone, make-up. The usual shit. It’d have to do. He opened the wallet. Four hundred and seventeen dollars. High roller. Then he found what he was looking for: the small timestamp card to pay for the parking. He started the car and pulled out of the underground garage.
***
Tremblay wasn’t sure where he should start. Looking for a junkie kid in this town was like searching for a needle in a haystack, or more like a needle in the gutter. Too many to count. Pino told him to check the usual spots, whatever that meant. He checked the rims of his nostrils for excess powder and headed out the door of his motel room.
He looked at his rented Ford Focus before climbing in. He knew the two cops from Calistoga were looking for him and probably knew the plates and make of the rental. If they were any good they did. He made a mental note to return the car and get another from a different agency as soon as he was done with his drive.
He decided to take a roll through the Tenderloin, maybe he’d get lucky. Maybe cruise by the methadone clinic. It was a spot all junkies ended up eventually. No clue as to whether the girl was a patient there. He could try to go in, flash his badge and get someone to check their records. It was the badge he’d kept from his days in San Jose—San Francisco demanded theirs back—but a badge was a badge. They were usually tightlipped about their clients when it came to law enforcement, but it’d work if he used just the right amount of abrasiveness.
He’d been told the girl was into methamphetamine, too. He didn’t know where to look for those lost souls. Dumpsters? The psych ward? He’d stick with his plan, check out the clinic, and then call Richard Alvarez, or Allen, or whatever the fuck he was calling himself these days, and let him know he was in motion. Maybe the old man had some new information he could move on.
Nearing midday, the sky was clear and blue. The first time he’d seen blue sky since he’d been there. A film of sweat layered his forehead and he was sorry he left his jacket on when he belted in. He drove the car up 6th Street, through the gauntlet of winos and hobos, and entered the Tenderloin on Taylor. He knew where the methadone clinic was; he’d visited many times as an SFPD narcotics officer. Some of the staff might even recognize him. Hopefully as a cop and not the scandalous thief the papers had made him out to be.
He was lost in thought, thinking of the days before his reputation was sullied, when he realized he was a block from the clinic. He slowed down and looked for a place to park. There was a white Mercedes slowed down in front of him, clearly doing the same thing. Nothing so frustrating as having someone cherry-pick the parking spot that should be yours. When he reached the corner of Geary and Van Ness, the Mercedes turned right. So did Tremblay. Then the car in front of him turned down the alley way. Must be some rich bitch going to get her dose at the clinic. He’d have to wait for her to park before he’d find his own spot.
Tremblay squinted at the car, trying to get a look at the driver in the Mercedes’ rearview. It wasn’t a bitch; it was a man. And as the white car began to go round the block once more, it became apparent that he wasn’t looking for parking, just crawling around the block. Tremblay hit his horn once and swerved around the guy. Just as he was about to pass and throw up his finger, he recognized the driver. Quinn. Right there beside him in the candy-ass Benz. Fucking Quinn, in the flesh.
Their eyes met for one quick second and Tremblay fought the urge to hit his brakes. He w
asn’t sure if Quinn recognized him too. He pulled into the bus stop on the corner and yanked the car over. He checked the rearview. Geary was a one way. Quinn would either have to pass him or park. He waited. The white Mercedes slowed then stopped, double-parked in front of the methadone clinic. Maybe Quinn was there to get the girl. Maybe it was Tremblay’s lucky day. He’d get a bead on both of them.
The hazard lights on the Mercedes blinked on. He watched Quinn’s head in the rearview. Same old Quinn, maybe a little older, a little more weathered, but he looked dapper behind the wheel of that car. It had to be stolen.
An orange and white Muni bus pulled up behind Quinn. It honked and waited a moment before pulling out around him. Tremblay watched as the bus maneuvered around the white car and pulled up beside the stop where he was parked. He was pinched in now, watching Quinn behind him. The Mercedes suddenly pulled out and to the left, cutting off several other cars coming down Geary Street. Tremblay was still pinched in by the bus. He watched the light change and heard the quick squeal of Quinn’s tires. By the time the bus had unloaded and pulled away, Quinn was on his way down Van Ness and the light was turning from yellow to red.
“Fuck it,” Tremblay said. He shot into the intersection and forced his car from the far right side, across, and into a left turn. Oncoming traffic in both directions honked as he cut them off. People on the sidewalk pointed at the reckless driver. Tremblay kept his eyes straight ahead on the white Mercedes.
Quinn recognized Tremblay the moment the car pulled beside him. Terrible Tremblay. Sunken eyes on his fat face, hatred painted across his scowling mouth. No doubt about it, it was Tremblay. He looked just as surprised as Quinn felt.
He waited to see if old Maurice would get out of his car and try to plug him right there in the street. Of course he didn’t; he had more to lose than Quinn.