by Tom Pitts
Alvarez laughed. “Why? If I have her, I have everything. You have no story. I know what you think in that twisted brain of yours, but she is my daughter. I raised her, Quinn, not you. What are you thinking, you’re going to take her away and play daddy? Bring her up right? You and I both know you’ll be dead or back in prison by morning.”
Quinn hit end-call and dropped the phone between his legs.
Chapter Thirty
Quinn powered the Charger over the bridge, shifting lanes and pushing the car as fast as the law allowed. He didn’t want to get pulled over, not now.
He was trying to decide what exit to take, what approach he should use to try to find Alvarez, when he pulled up on the right side of a green Acura. He saw the profile in the Acura’s passenger window, and it almost didn’t register.
The boy. Steven. The kid was looking straight ahead and didn’t see Quinn driving beside him. Quinn didn’t know if he wanted to kiss him or kill him.
He let his foot off the accelerator and eased back and stayed on the car’s right. There was Steven, no doubt about it. Twenty-five feet ahead of him. A head poked up from the backseat, too. He couldn’t say for sure, but his gut told him it was Teresa. What he couldn’t tell was who was behind the wheel.
The Acura signaled right and took the ramp to the central freeway. Quinn followed. They were heading to Fell Street. Quinn’s plan had been made for him. He should have known Alvarez was bluffing.
The freeway ended at Octavia Street and Quinn was now one car-length behind them. Whoever was driving was oblivious to his tail. They started their short convoy up through the timed lights of Fell Street. At the crest of the hill, the car between them made a left. Quinn was now inches from the Acura’s bumper. He was sure it was Teresa in the backseat. As they passed under the streetlights, her greasy dyed mop was unmistakable.
Steven asked, “What do you plan to do?”
Carl was honest. “I can’t say that I know for sure. The best I can think of is when Peters walks through that door, as soon as he’s clear of Alvarez, I shoot the son of a bitch.”
“Is that legal?”
“No, but at this point, I don’t know how else to end this thing. I have to make sure Peters is safe. If he doesn’t come out that door, I don’t know what I’ll do.” He glanced in the rearview at the backseat. “How you doin’ back there, young lady?”
“Shitty. I’m sick. I’m tired. And I want to get out of this car.”
“It won’t be long now. Just hang in there.”
Carl put his left hand on the wheel and sucked air loudly through his teeth as the pain in his shoulder burned through him. With his right hand he drew the .38 from his hip and handed it to Steven.
“Son, you know how to load this thing?”
It was the second time in four days that Steven had held a gun. Again, he was surprised at its weight. “No, I don’t think so.”
Teresa spoke up from the back. “Lemme see it. I’ll do it. Where’re the shells?”
“Steven, in the glove box there’s a box of shells. Beside it you should see two speed loaders.”
“I thought you kept this stuff in the trunk?”
“Just open the damn glove box, Steven.”
Steven did. Inside he found two boxes of shells. “Which ones?”
“The ones that say thirty-eight. The others are for a nine. Hand them back to your friend.”
Steven passed the gun and the shells over the seat.
“Now the speed loaders.”
“What’s a speed loader?
“Just what it sounds like. They’re little round metal things. Feel around for them.”
Teresa went about her work. They kept on, flying through the timed lights on Fell Street. The panhandle was on their left when Teresa said, “Get into your right lane. We’re going to make a right at Stanyan up here.”
“How close are we to Geary and Arguello?”
“Close,” she said.
When Alvarez was finished loading his own gun, his precious PPK, he placed a call to Bill Panzer.
Bill answered with the characteristic gruffness of a homicide cop. “Panzer.”
“Bill, it’s me. Can you tell me if you’ve heard from our friend from Calistoga yet?”
“That son of a bitch has gone rogue. He made a semi-anonymous call to the OPD about some killings there about forty minutes ago.”
“If it was anonymous, how do you know it was him?”
“I heard the tape. It was him all right. If you hear from this jackass, you let me know. We’ll take care of him. He’s stacking up charges like a regular gangster.”
“My only concern is finding my daughter.”
“Maybe you should’ve been looking for her last week before the shit hit the fan, eh, Richard?”
Alvarez hung up. He climbed the stairs from the basement to the main floor where there were windows to watch out of.
It was less than two minutes before his phone rang again.
Carl pulled off Fulton onto a side street named Parsons. He didn’t want to get too close to the meeting spot in case Alvarez had people on the corner waiting for him. He hit the redial button.
“It’s me. I’m here. Let me talk to Peters.”
“Let me talk to the girl.”
“No.”
“I guess we’re both going to have to trust each other.”
“Tell me where you are.”
“Why don’t you tell me exactly where you are, and I’ll guide you in. If you don’t mind, I’d like to stay on the phone with you ’til you get here.”
“All right,” Carl said.
Alvarez overheard Carl ask someone about their location. Then he heard a girl’s voice say Fulton and Arguello. It was Teresa’s voice, it had to be. The old man was honest, at least.
“Drive out Fulton. Toward the beach. Tell me each block you’re at and I’ll tell you where to turn.”
Carl held a finger to his lips to ensure the silence of his passengers and then hit speaker phone. He turned the car around on Parsons, took a right, and started out Fulton, slowly.
“Second Avenue,” he said.
“Keep going.” Alvarez’s voice sounded playful as though he were enjoying a game of warmer and colder with a child.
Carl drove slowly so he could follow Alvarez’s instructions. There was only one set of headlights behind him and they slowed as much as he did.
“Fourth Avenue.”
“Keep going.”
They went on like this until 8th Avenue. Then Alvarez told Carl to make a right on 10th. Carl made a right at the light and crawled up the block.
“Keep coming,” Alvarez said. “You’re not there yet.”
Carl went two more blocks in silence. He watched his rearview. The headlights turned at 10th Avenue, too. They hung back one full block.
“I just passed Anza. You got somebody following me?”
“There’s no one following you,” Alvarez said dismissively. “When you get to Geary, take a right.”
Carl did as he was instructed. When he reached the end of the block, Alvarez told him to make another right.
Alvarez asked, “Who’s the guy in the front seat?”
“Is that you behind me?”
“I told you, there’s no one—” Alvarez’s voice trailed off.
***
The McGovern Funeral Home sat on the corner of 10th Avenue and Geary Street. Alvarez had been sitting in the lobby, behind the stained glass, waiting for Carl to turn the corner. He spied the Acura as soon as it approached. He saw Carl behind the wheel, Teresa in back, and a young man in the front seat.
Then he saw Manuel’s Charger. He had no doubt who was behind the wheel.
Alvarez’s heart actually skipped a beat.
“Go around the block, Carl. I’m at the funeral home on the corner of Tenth and Geary. You just passed me. There’s a side entrance on Tenth. Double-park. I’ll be at the door.”
Alvarez hit end and pocketed the cell. He drew his aut
omatic from his waistband and racked the slide.
It took almost a full minute for the Acura to appear on the block again. Alvarez held the gun behind his back with his right hand, took a half-step out, and waved to Carl with his left.
Carl stopped the car in front of McGovern’s side entrance and got out. He didn’t move away from the car door, he stood in the street with the Acura and another parked car between him and Alvarez. He held the .38 out of sight at his side.
Carl called out, “Where’s Peters?”
Alvarez kept his eyes up the block, not on Carl. “He’s inside. C’mon in. Bring those two with you.”
Carl followed Alvarez’s line of sight and looked over his shoulder at the empty block.
“Peters first. Where is he?”
“Listen to me, I was wrong. You’ve been followed. Quick now, step inside, all three of you.”
“No chance. We’re staying right here. Send Peters out.”
The Charger’s headlights came round the corner at Anza. They crept up the block.
“Look, the man who followed you here. He’s not one of mine. If he sees the girl, he’s going to kill her. Her first and then you. Please, get in here before someone dies.”
Carl looked up the block again and saw the Charger. He recognized it, not only from the Mission alley that afternoon, the one that trailed him and Tremblay, but as the vehicle that pulled up behind him in Oakland when he was fired upon. The Charger stopped fifty feet behind the Acura. It sat, idling. Traffic hurled by on Geary, but on 10th Avenue there was only the Charger and Carl’s car.
“You set me up,” Carl said. “Peters isn’t here. I’ll be back with the police.”
But Alvarez wasn’t listening; his eyes were locked on the Charger.
The door of the Charger opened and a man stepped out. The car’s headlights were still on so it was tough to make him out, but Carl recognized Quinn instantly. Even at that distance, even at night, Quinn was unmistakable. Movie star good looks.
Quinn called out, “How y’all doin’?”
Without waiting for a response, Quinn lifted his gun above the edge of his open door and fired a shot at Alvarez.
Alvarez pulled back into the doorway when he saw Quinn draw, but not quick enough. The heavy caliber tore through the meat on the outside of his right shoulder.
Carl pointed his .38 at Quinn and took aim, but his wound slowed him and Quinn got off a shot first. Carl took a bullet in the chest. It slammed him back into the Acura’s door and he fell to the pavement in a sitting position.
Quinn didn’t pause to inspect the damage to Carl. He marched, .45 held out in front of him, from the Charger to the doorway of the funeral parlor.
There was blood, a bullet hole in the wood of the doorway, but no Alvarez. Quinn moved into the darkness inside.
Steven flopped over the driver’s seat, tangling himself in the shoulder belt. He pulled himself closer to Carl. The bloodstain on Carl’s shirt from the previous injury was now a slick red wetness. Steven couldn’t see where Quinn’s bullet had pierced him, only that the life was draining from his new friend.
“Are you all right?”
Carl’s voice was a dry rasp. “No, I don’t think so. Not this time.”
“Sit still, I’ll call for help. Just don’t do anything.”
“Do me a favor and feed my dog.”
Steven was perplexed. “I don’t know where your dog is?”
“Buford’s a good judge of character. He’s going to love you.” Carl’s eyes began to roll back into his head. “Peters can show you how to get there. Brenda will tell you where I keep the food.”
Steven reached into Carl’s jacket, peeling the coat away from the tactile mess of blood. The lining of his coat was also saturated. He pulled the cell and tried to light the screen through the red film covering the phone.
The backdoor slammed.
Steven lifted his head just enough to see Teresa run into the building.
“There she goes,” Carl said. “You better go get her.”
“I can’t leave you.”
“Why? I’m not going anywhere. Dial nine-one-one and drop that phone in my lap. Do the right thing, Steven. I’ll be fine. Go get her. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”
Steven dialed and dropped the phone, but before he pulled himself off the seat, he grabbed Carl’s snub nose .38. The grip was sticky with blood.
Steven sat up straight and thumbed the clasp on his seatbelt. As he climbed out of the car, he eyed the side door of the funeral parlor. It was open and dark.
Quinn entered the basement. His senses sharp. Eyes straining for any glint of light, ears tuned for the slightest scratch of sound, nose trained for the scent of blood.
It was Alvarez’s turf and he had that advantage in the dark. Quinn held fast as a hunter and waited.
A shot rang out and for a brief second the room lit up with a lightning flash. Quinn’s ears echoed with the report.
Quick steps to his right across the linoleum. Footsteps behind him on the stairs. Quinn knew he had to act now.
Alvarez’s voice taunted from the darkness. “Does she know, Quinn? Does she know it was you who pulled the trigger? You want to be her daddy now, but does she know it was you who killed her mother?”
The footsteps on the stairs stopped.
Quinn stepped silently to his left, squatted down, and took aim into the absolute black.
The voice called out again. “You think you can—”
Quinn fired. Four rounds. The quick blasts deafened the room.
The voice stopped. There was stillness. He could feel it.
A light came on. He swung his .45 around at the doorway to the stairs. Teresa stood there, framed by the doorjamb, one hand curled around to the light switch on the wall.
“It’s true?”
Quinn held the sight on her for a few seconds, then lowered the gun to his side.
“It’s done. I’m through. Get out of here before the police show. You’re going to be all right. The story’ll come out. You’re a victim, everybody’ll love you.” He said again, “Everybody’ll love you. I did this for you.”
Steven stepped around Teresa and fired. Carl’s .38 jumped in his hand. The bullet hit Quinn in the chest. He fired again. This one hit home in the stomach. Again he squeezed the trigger. A puff of drywall bloomed far beyond Quinn. Steven kept squeezing. The next shot hit Quinn in the face and drove him backward, his head taking all the inertia, until he lay flat on his back.
Steven pointed the barrel at the prone body, squeezing the trigger over and over, but the hammer slapped metal. The dry metallic clicks were almost inaudible in their ringing ears.
“Fuck. Enough,” Teresa said. She squatted down on her haunches and put her head in her hands. She teetered there a moment then fell flat onto her ass and began to sob, the father she’d always known on one side of the room and the father she’d just gained in front of her.
Chapter Thirty-One
Steven wasn’t sure if he heard sirens. The blast from the gunshots had deafened him. Then he heard the shouts of police, the authoritarian orders that sound just like they do on television. “Show me your hands…drop your weapon…don’t move…get on the floor.” Conflicting orders that so confused him, he froze and waited for someone to come from behind him and pluck the gun from his hand.
He felt the cool linoleum pushing against his cheek as a strong hand held his head on the floor while others pulled his arms behind his back, cuffing his wrists. His legs were kicked apart and he was told over and over not to move, not to resist. But he wasn’t moving; he had no intention of resisting. He was exhausted, drained. It was finally over.
Black shoes and boots stomped around him. The police spoke in their obtuse language of numbers and codes.
Then came the paramedics, confirming the dead were dead and the living were uninjured. He heard Teresa telling someone at first to take it easy, and then to fuck off.
Steven was rolled over and so
meone pressed a stethoscope to his chest. He asked the medic, “How’s Carl?”
The man said, “Who’s Carl?”
Steven tried to tell him but the man told him not to speak before turning him back over onto his chest.
Steven lay quiet, letting the commotion ramp up around him. With his cheek pressed to the floor and his hands cuffed behind his back, he began to lose circulation. It put him in a state of semi-consciousness. The sounds pinged off the walls, far away. The brightness of the fluorescent light took on a hazy, opaque quality. The room continued to fill with people. Soon, instead of only the black shoes and boots, he saw the paper-covered feet of the crime scene unit. The covers looked like the ones surgeons wore while operating.
Then a pair of brown shoes stood in front of him. Close to his face. They were unlike any other shoes in the room. They looked expensive and they were cuffed by a pair of denim jeans.
The man in the jeans squatted down, but Steven still could not see his face.
“Roll him over.”
Steven felt two sets of hands pull him again onto his back.
“Who the fuck are you?” the man said.
He leaned in close. So close that Steven smelled an odor of onion, or garlic, fouled in with his aftershave. Steven didn’t answer.
“I asked who the fuck are you?” The man was chewing gum, rolling an old dead wad over and over between his molars. Still the stale food odor seeped through.
A disembodied voice answered. “His name is Steven Mitchell. Twenty years old. He hasn’t given a statement yet.”
The man’s gaze did not break. He said, “Well, Steven. I’m Detective Panzer with the homicide division. You want to tell me what the fuck went on here?”
Steven slowly shook his head. It was as though Panzer were a feral cat and, if Steven flinched, he’d be scratched and bit.
Panzer pointed and asked, “You know that man over there in the corner?”