by Tom Pitts
Quinn said, “Maurice, you ol’ son of a bitch. You still alive? I coulda sworn it’d be a heart attack that took you out.”
Another loud shot. Quinn had executed Tremblay.
The living room behind Carl was silent again. Quinn had heard Seth’s whimpers, Carl was sure of it. He could feel his presence. He heard the creak of the floorboards as Quinn stepped closer.
Carl made his move; he rolled out and took aim. In the same moment, Quinn was aiming at the wall, correctly assuming it was where Carl was leaning. A fresh bullet tore through the wall right at the spot Carl had been resting his head. The sound of Quinn’s cannon threw off Carl’s aim and his shot went wide. He saw it hit the ceiling above Quinn’s head.
From his position on the floor, Quinn towered over him. It was the first time he’d seen him. The man was smiling.
Carl was taken aback. He froze for just one moment before trying to fire again. But in that moment, Quinn turned and fled down the back hallway. There was another sound of a door slamming.
He was gone.
The pool of blood underneath Seth was now enormous. The man was talking, but it was in bits of delirium. Carl tried to make out what he was saying.
“Go on, son. What is it?”
Something about a story, a flash drive. Firelight. Make sure he got it in. Pictures for the layout. Needed to ask the girl…Seth’s voice drifted into a light, almost melodious mumble.
Seth fell unconscious.
Carefully, Carl got up. He moved to check Tremblay. No chance. There was a bullet hole right through his temple. It was sunburst with the burn marks of a close-range shot. Carl reached around to Tremblay’s jacket pocket to grab his cell. He touched a plastic baggie, he pulled it out partway, saw it contained white power, and stuffed it back in. He tried another pocket and found the cell. He stood up, surveyed the room. Right there on the coffee table between the abandoned beer glasses was a flash drive. Carl pocketed that, too.
He pulled his own cell and began to dial. Nine—one—He remembered the boy waiting up the street. He ran to the front door and started toward the car. From his vantage point the car looked empty. So did the street. He kept moving, hearing the air whistle through his lungs. Maybe Steven was hiding down on the floorboards, he thought. He hoped. He reached the car and it was empty.
He climbed into the Acura, started the engine, and again took out his cell.
The back window exploded in a storm of glass. There was a bullet hole in the windshield in front of his face. He shoved his body down on the seat. He reached up and slapped the rearview mirror so he could see what was behind him. There was a car with the front door open and someone taking aim. They were using the front door for cover, just as he was trained to do. Carl could tell immediately it wasn’t Quinn. It was the lunkhead bodyguard from the restaurant.
Carl, still trying to stay low in the seat, put the car in drive and pulled out. Another shot came through the broken-out back window. This one ripped through the driver’s seat and through Carl’s left shoulder. It was like a hard punch. He hit the gas. He’d only gone a few yards when the burn started. He pushed the accelerator down. Nothing he could do but drive. The pain was excruciating. He didn’t even look back to see if the bodyguard was following. He took a hard right and raced down the block. The light was red, so he made another right. Where is the boy? he thought. Where is the girl?
Manuel didn’t follow Carl. He got back in his Charger and pulled up to the address Alvarez had given him. He got out and ran to the door. It was blocked. He pushed his way in and saw it was obstructed by a man on the floor bathed in his own blood. The man’s skin was whiter than white; he looked dead. He moved, gun drawn, to the living room. There, Tremblay lay on the floor. Brains blown out. Tremblay’s Glock a few inches from his dead hand. Manuel squatted down and checked his pockets. A fat bag of blow, nothing else. He took the bag and Tremblay’s gun and moved on through the rest of the house.
Alvarez had told him to find anything with the possibility of a story. Computers, flash drives, folders, anything. He knew time was running out. The police would probably arrive any minute. Manuel went upstairs and checked the rooms there. Nothing. There was a small PC in one room, he yanked its tower from the cords and took it downstairs and set it by the couch. In the kitchen, he spotted a laptop sitting on the table. He tossed it on the couch by the PC.
***
Steven had watched the two men go up to the door. Only seconds later he heard a gunshot. He sat terrified, ears peeled for more reports. Then he saw her. She was running out the mouth of the alley to his left. Legs pumping, arms flailing. She was alone and moving as fast as her body would carry her.
He scrambled from the car and shouted, “Hey.” She didn’t slow, she was at the end of the block now. Steven started running after her. It was all he could do. He pushed his body as hard as he could. She darted across the street and started up the next block. He followed. She was slowing down. He was gaining.
“Teresa,” he called. And then tried, “It’s me.”
She kept moving, her heavy boots beating down on the cement. More gunshots now, sounding more distant. Her head kept turning from side to side as she looked for a new direction to dart.
Steven kept up his sprint. His lungs began to burn. Finally, almost four full blocks from where they’d started, he yelled, “Please, wait. It’s me, Steven.”
She stopped and turned. As soon as she saw him her eyes welled up. She doubled over, wheezing and panting as he trotted and closed the last few feet between them.
Both of them now, facing each other, hands on their hips, gasping for breath. They looked into one another’s eyes with amazement.
“You’re okay,” Steven said.
“What the fuck are you doing here?”
“I’m looking for you.”
She rolled her eyes, grabbed him by the hand and pulled. “Let’s go. We’ve got to keep moving.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Quinn ran to where the alley met the street. He saw no sign of the girl. No sign of anyone. He ventured across the street into the next alleyway. Still nothing. He tried to think like a nineteen-year-old junkie girl, but that wasn’t working for him either. He slowed his pace, listening hard for footsteps, bushes rustling, anything.
Then came the sound of a gunshot. Then another. A high rev of an engine.
Weighing his options, he decided. The girl was alive. That’s what he wanted. She’d have to fend for herself for the time being. Now he needed to keep the story alive. He turned and retraced his steps back to Seth’s house.
When he reached the back door, he could tell there was movement inside. No lights or sirens, so it wasn’t the OPD, not yet anyway. He drew the .45 from where it was lodged in the small of his back and stepped lightly toward the backdoor.
That old fuckin’ cop is looking for the story, thought Quinn.
He crept up to the back entrance off the kitchen. There was no mistaking Manuel in the living room. Big, lumbering Manuel. A laptop pinched under one arm and his two hands clasped around a PC tower. Quinn could tell Manuel thought he was alone, but also in a hurry.
Smart fucker, he’s taking all the evidence.
Manuel passed through the front door and Quinn came right into the main room behind him. Tremblay was still on the floor; Seth had bled-out in the foyer. No body of the old cop.
He stayed behind the wall that he’d shot at moments before and watched Manuel load the Charger. Both computers went into the trunk. Manuel slammed the trunk and returned to the house. Quinn drew back into the kitchen.
Once inside, Manuel pulled out his cell and dialed. One touch. Last call made.
“Hey, it’s me. No Quinn, he’s gone…I saw the old man pull away, but he was alone, I’m pretty sure…I don’t know, I took everything I found…I don’t even know how to begin to burn down a house…all right, all right. I’ll call you back when I’m on the way.”
Manuel hit the end call button and said “Fuck.�
��
Quinn came from the kitchen, .45 extended before him, and fired once. Head shot. Manuel dropped, all his weight thumping onto the floor. Eyes wide and dead. Quinn leaned over him, picked up the cell from the floor, and went through his pockets.
In Manuel’s pants he found keys, and cash folded and wrapped with a rubber band. He felt around to the small of his back and found his PPK. In his jacket he found two extra clips and something else.
“What’s this now?” Quinn said. He yanked out the baggie of blow. “Manuel, you been getting high on your own supply?” Quinn stood, pocketed the coke and the phone, slipped the PPK into his waistband, and went outside to the Charger with Manuel’s keys in one hand and the .45 in the other.
He stood for a moment before he got into Manuel’s car. He listened for sirens. There were none. Nice town, Oakland.
He drove slowly through the surrounding streets, still hoping to spot the girl. After a few blocks he gave up and started looking for a freeway onramp.
***
Carl pulled over. The pain from the bullet-hole through his shoulder was almost too much to bear. He took out his phone and dialed 9-1-1. First he told the operator the address of Seth’s house and said there had been a homicide. There was a seriously injured man in the doorway of the house. No, he was not on the premises. No, he could not return. No, he would not give his name. Not yet. The usual barrage of questions followed. Carl said he’d have to call back, he promised. Then he hung up. He held the phone in his hand for a moment and turned it off.
He tossed it on the passenger seat beside Tremblay’s phone. He wondered if he should have called from Tremblay’s number, but decided he wanted that line live. It was a hotline to Alvarez.
He was lost now, driving in circles, trying to find the kids. That’s what they were, kids. Mixing them up with this psychopath and hurling bullets over their heads didn’t change what they were—children.
He wouldn’t be able to drive much longer. He knew he should go to a hospital—if he knew where one was. But as soon as he entered an emergency room, it would be all over. Peters, Steven, even Teresa; there’d be nothing he could do for them. So he kept driving and looking and trying to find his bearings.
He’d wandered too many blocks from the scene of the crime, and was sure he’d lost them forever. Then he spotted two figures, barely shadows, disappearing around a corner at 2nd and Franklin. He U-turned.
As he turned, he saw them duck down between two parked cars. He powered down the windows and pulled up slow, shouting Steven’s name.
It was Steven’s head that popped up first. Then it slipped back out of sight.
“I see you, Steven. It’s me, Carl.”
Steven’s head popped back up, then Teresa’s. Carl winced a sigh of relief.
“Both of you, quickly, get in the car.”
Steven sprang up and reached for the door handle, but Teresa stayed crouched.
“C’mon. Let’s go,” Steven said.
She didn’t move.
“What’s wrong?”
Teresa was looking past Steven at Carl. She was scared, but wore a defensive mask. She looked as though she was ready to fight.
“It’s all right,” Steven said. “I know him. He can help us.”
Carl cut in, “I’m not kidding, you two. We have to move. As far as I know that maniac is right behind me. It wasn’t too hard for me to find you and it won’t be for him, either.”
Teresa pursed her lips and crawled into the backseat.
The moment Carl turned the wheel, Steven saw that he was injured.
“Holy fuck. What happened to you? You’re bleeding. Did you get shot?”
“It’s nothing. Went right through.”
Steven leaned forward and saw the whole front of Carl’s shirt had been stained red. “Man, I dunno. It doesn’t look like nothing. You sure you can drive?”
“Yeah, I’m sure.”
“Maybe we should get you to a hospital?”
“No. Not yet. I have a plan. Just help me find a darn freeway onramp.”
***
Alvarez made coffee while he waited for Peters’ body to finish cremating. It was a solid two hours before a corpse was completely done. Making a pot of coffee had become something of a ritual to pass this time. He was alone in the crematorium. Gutiérrez was apparently in custody and Manuel wasn’t answering his fucking phone, but he felt safe in the bunker of his funeral home. He always had. It was locked up, windowless, and underground. The silence down there soothed him. He started a throaty hum to a tune he knew from somewhere in his past. He couldn’t remember where he’d heard it or what it was, it just always seemed to creep up at times like these.
The coffee was done long before the body and he poured himself a deep mug. He sat down in the same chair where he’d executed Peters and patted his shirt pocket for one of his favorite cigarillos. He drew one out and unwrapped it. The sweet rich smell helped quell the array of unpleasant odors in the mortuary.
He’d just lit it when his cell went off.
He looked at the screen. T. Code for Tremblay. He hit answer.
“Where the fuck are you? You better have some good news for me, you shit.”
Carl said, “Things didn’t go as planned.”
“Who is this?”
“I’d like to speak to my partner.”
“Aah, Mr… I’ve already forgotten your name. Carl, is it?”
“I just want to know that he’s okay. Then we can talk.”
“Oh, he’s okay. He’s fine. Tell you what, you can talk to him when you pick him up. I understand you borrowed his car.”
“I have Teresa with me.”
Alvarez fell silent. It was a curveball.
“Where are you, Carl?”
“Never mind where I am. Tell me where I can pick up my partner.”
“Sure. C’mon over. Who are you with? I’d like to know if I need to set up a cheese plate.”
“I’m alone. Just me and the girl. Where is Peters?”
“You expect me to believe that you haven’t enlisted the help of the police? Are you playing Batman, Carl?”
Carl didn’t like the way his name sounded when Alvarez said it, as though it curdled in the back of his throat like sour venom.
“Believe what you want. I told you who I’m with. I’d like to come and get my partner now.”
“And you’ll bring the girl?”
Carl was crossing the Bay Bridge while he talked to Alvarez, the skyline of San Francisco rising up on his right. He looked into his rearview at Teresa sitting in the backseat. She had her head against the window and was staring out at the bay. He was sure she was listening to everything he said.
“Yes.”
“Call me back from this number when you’re at, oh I don’t know, say Geary and Arguello and I’ll give you the address. I’ll make sure your friend is ready. I don’t want to spend a lot of time chit-chatting.”
Alvarez was about to ask about Tremblay’s fate, but Carl had already hung up. He sat back down with the cell in his lap and picked up the coffee mug. He loved the smell of the cigarillo when it blended with hot coffee.
He wasn’t sure how he was going to deal with the old cop once he arrived. He only knew an opportunity to get the girl in his crematorium was too good to pass up. It’d solve so many problems. The article the reporter had threatened to write could be quashed as slander. His unfortunate death could be blamed on a pattern of misadventure. Tremblay’s reputation was so sullied it’d be no problem to spin him into the mix. Two disgraced men on drugs found dead in an Oakland slum? How hard could that be to sell?
But, if he was going to do this right, he was going to need help.
He set down his coffee and dialed Manuel.
***
Quinn fled Seth’s house when he heard sirens approaching. He hoped Manuel had done a thorough job picking up all the fragments that contained the story. The last thing he grabbed on the way out were the two tiny vials that contained
the DNA swabs he and Teresa had given.
Now it was time to find Alvarez. He wandered briefly through the streets of Oakland, almost taking a wrong turn into the tunnel to the island of Alameda, before he found a freeway ramp marked San Francisco.
Quinn enjoyed testing the power and speed of Manuel’s new Dodge Charger.
As he approached the Bay Bridge toll plaza, he felt around for cash and dug out Manuel’s wad of bills. All twenties. He handed a bill to the toll-taker and smiled at her when he received his change. When he got onto the cantilever section of the bridge, he moved over to the right lane so he could enjoy the lights of the city.
Manuel’s phone went off. The ringtone sang an unintelligible pop song in Spanish. He let it go for a moment before he saw the caller ID read out the letter A.
“Yello?” answered Quinn.
“Manuel?”
The voice on the line sounded suspicious, guarded. Quinn recognized it instantly. His old boss, Richard Alvarez.
“Buenos noches, Ricardo.”
The line went quiet. Quinn could only imagine the look on Alvarez’s face.
“You looking for Manuel, Richard? Word on the street is he quit the business. But don’t worry, what you sent him to pick up? I got it. It’s safe and sound.”
It took another moment, but Alvarez said, “I sent him to pick up the girl. And that, you don’t have.”
“Now, how would you know that?”
“Because I do.”
“Impossible. Don’t bullshit a bullshitter, Richard. I just left her, she’s fine.”
“I know she is. She’s on the way to see me. She wants to forgive me and put all this behind her. She don’t want no stories bringing up the past and making her life more trouble than it already is.” Alvarez paused for a moment, then added, “She’s afraid of you, Quinn.”
Quinn tightened his lips across his teeth. It was too great a risk to call his bluff.
“Fine. Let’s meet. You can have your story and let me take Teresa.”