by K R Hill
They passed a couple of doors. Behind the third door, Connor heard men talking and laughing. The instant he knocked on the door, all sound vanished.
"Who is it?"
“It’s Bartholomew. I have an appointment."
"Go play in the street," someone called. The sounds of a card game resumed.
“Got to love the Chinese underground,” said Connor.
“Why, that little bitch.” Bartholomew backed away and rocked in place, arms swinging back and forth. "One, two," he whispered, sprang forward and burst into the room. Coins and bills flew into the air as the card table crashed to the floor beneath him.
"You won’t open your door for me? What the hell is wrong with you?” Bartholomew rolled off the table and slapped away coins and bills.
"Very sorry. You're right.” Chen, a thin man with a scraggly goatee, knocked a cowboy hat off his head and spit into a wastepaper basket. “Oh, these men give me horrible chewing tobacco.” He pointed and spit and wiped his tongue with his hand. “It made me crazy.”
The men beside Chen grabbed some bills from the floor and ran out of the room.
Bartholomew said, “I need papers, Chen. Can you help?"
“I’ll always help you, Bartholomew. You know that.” Chen bent over and grabbed the hat and placed it over his heart. “I did raise my price, though.”
"Yeah, just now you raised it. You’ll get your fee, but I need top quality.” Bartholomew shook a finger in the air.
“I guarantee quality.”
"Here is twenty-five hundred bucks. When you deliver in three days, you’ll get the other half. All the photos and stuff are in the envelope.”
Chen fiddled with the hat. “Um, the price is seven thousand.”
“What?” shouted Bartholomew.
Connor shrugged. “He has to buy a new door.”
“And pay a carpenter to install it.” Chen spit again. “I think I’m going to be sick.”
“I’m out of here.” Connor walked out.
***
To avoid the angry cleaning woman, they left the building through the back door and walked along the sidewalk.
"I love Bixby Knolls.” Bartholomew glanced along the sidewalk behind him.
"What if Chen doesn’t come through?"
"He'll have the papers.” Bartholomew paused at a fruit stand and picked up an apple from a pyramid of fruit. He sniffed it and set it back into place.
"How do you know?" asked Connor.
"Because I know his name. With his name, people can find his history. He can’t take that risk." Bartholomew stared at the streetcar clanking along in the distance.
“What do you mean, you know his name?”
“He used a fake name to enter the US.”
“But you know his real name.”
“Yeah,” Bartholomew chuckled. “I'm calling in all my markers. When this is finished, I'll have to leave.”
“I see two tails.” Connor looked over the crowd. Twenty feet back, two large men were rushing toward them, knocking shoppers aside. “They look like Redmond’s men, and they’re pissed.”
“Damn, we have to split up. We’ll meet tonight.”
“Okay. Go!” Connor jumped into the street and ran, sidestepped through the intersection, and reached the streetcar just before it pulled away.
On the steps of the trolley, he turned. At the intersection he saw the heavy weight in the blue suit stop and abandon the chase. Shivers raced up his spine. Why would the guy give up? Something was wrong. Connor’s hands shook on the overhead rail as he moved to a seat. What had he missed? A dryness in his mouth made swallowing impossible. His throat ached. He searched the carriage for the reason the Russian had walked away.
People shuffled down the crowded aisle. As the carriages lunged forward and picked up speed, Connor glanced at the door-opening lever beside the driver. But he saw no secret glances, no familiar faces, no one trying to hide the cocky body language that always gave street thugs away. His heart stopped pounding, and at last he managed to swallow. A moment later, between two passengers, he saw a horrible face. A huge, spiderweb scar covered the guy’s cheek, as if a piece of shrapnel had torn the cheek apart years before. Beside the soldier sat a bald man with a tattoo across his forehead.
The soldier with the destroyed face formed a pistol with his hand and fired an imaginary shot at Connor. Then both men climbed to their feet and knocked passengers aside.
Connor was trapped in a speeding streetcar, surrounded by rush-hour traffic. His pulse pounded in his ears, surging through his body, preparing him for a fight.
As the streetcar reached full speed, the two thugs moved up the aisle. Between passengers, Connor saw that one of the soldiers was holding something long and slender. He remembered Redmond saying, “We Russians never forget.”
“Where’s your boss?” shouted Connor. “Did he send his dogs to get the data?”
As the pair came closer, he saw that one held a machete against his leg.
“He said to get the information any way we can.” The guy with the scar smiled and raised the machete.
Connor backed away until he bumped the railing beside the driver. With no place left to run, he clasped his hands together and lowered his head. The muscles knotted and burned in his legs and arms. Saliva trickled from the corner of his mouth. When the Russians were only a few steps away, Connor looked up, raised his arms and hollered with all his might, jerked the door lever, and leaped into traffic.
Chapter 22
He landed on the hood of a convertible. His face slammed against the windshield and he slipped sideways to the fender before he managed to grab a wiper and pull himself up. Positioned there, holding the wiper, his face pressed to the windshield, he reached up and grabbed the top of the windshield, pulled himself over, and dropped into the passenger seat.
The driver stomped on the brakes, and the car swerved sideways. Vehicles skidded and honked.
“What do you want?” The young driver leaned away with a horrible look on his face. “Get out of my car. Look at the damage to my hood.” His long blond hair fluttered in the wind.
“I won't hurt you.” Connor shouted, “Turn here.”
The convertible slipped around the corner and skidded to a stop behind a truck. Workers in blue overalls and hard hats were unloading concrete blocks.
“Damn,” he shouted. Connor climbed up the car seat and opened the door to run.
The streetcar's emergency brakes screeched. Redmond’s two henchmen jumped from a carriage and ran toward him.
In an instant he swept his gaze over the driver’s Indian jewelry and hippie clothing. A thousand voices inside him screamed that he should run. Connor glanced at the Russians. They were less than forty feet away. "I’ll give you a thousand dollars if you drive me away from here.”
“A thousand bucks? Hell, yes,” shouted the driver.
The engine revved. The Russians were ten feet behind the car when the horn sounded. Laborers shouted as the Alfa Romeo sprang forward, engine racing and tires throwing gravel. The driver shouted like a cowboy in a rodeo as his vehicle bounced over a mound of dirt, spun around the corner, and entered the flow of traffic.
“Okay, now listen.” Connor opened the glove box and removed the registration. “Is this your address?”
“Yeah.”
“Where should I send payment?”
“You don't have it with you?”
“I don’t carry that kind of cash. But I will send it.”
“That address,” said the driver, tapping the registration with a finger. “Send it there. You promised to send it.”
“I will.”
***
Connor jumped out of the convertible and hurried along the street to a donut shop. He ordered a bear claw from the Vietnamese girl behind the counter, and sat in a corner booth with his back against the wall and a clear view of the street. There he felt his sore ribs where he landed, and flexed his shoulder and elbow.
He washed down a bite of the bear claw
with a sip of hot coffee, and called Bartholomew. “Hey, I can’t make it back for a while.”
“You okay?”
“Just sore, but I think I’m being followed. Keep the girls safe. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
“Where are you going?”
“Can’t say on the phone.” Connor hung up and trotted across up the street to a parked taxi. The drive through east Long Beach passed quickly. The moment he opened the car door and stood up in the strip mall parking lot, he smelled onions frying.
A little bell tinkled when he opened the door of Artie’s Burgers and Pool.
Artie stood behind the counter filling a schooner from a beer tap. “Well, Monte Marin’s son comes to visit twice in a week.”
“Marin,” said the man waiting for his beer. “Wasn’t he in vice?”
“Hell no.” Artie set the schooner on the counter. “Monte and I were homicide detectives for two years.”
Connor reached and took Artie’s hand, shook it, and clamped down on it hard enough to send a message. “Let’s start fresh, Artie. My old man always said to see you if I needed help.”
Artie's quick, alert eyes shifted sideways. “Hell, Connor. Someone after you? Cause if they are, you came to the right place. The fellas bring me all the toys they’re afraid to keep at home. I got a couple of hot MP7s in the kitchen. If that ain’t enough, every guy here is packing. You know ex-cops.”
“Artie, I need to get off the street for a while. I may have been tough with you the last time I dropped by, but this is serious.”
“Huh, forget it. Anything for Monte’s boy.” He led Connor past several customers and into the storeroom. In the darkness of the room, he fumbled for the light chain and pulled it.
“If you need anything—” He opened his arms wide.
“Thanks. But listen up, I don’t care what kind of operation you’re running out of this place. I’m on a case that involves something the old man may have done back in the day. That’s why I was pressing you.”
Artie waved a hand as though brushing away a mosquito. “That’s something else. I got it. Right now, you need my help. Besides, I kind of owe you. Remember when you found my daughter for me?”
“That was years ago. Magdalena, right? I remember when you barged in and beat up three teenagers because you thought they took her.”
“I was young.”
“You had a good right hook.”
Artie closed his eyes for a moment. “Now, what’s going on? What do you need?”
"I need to lay low for an hour or so.”
“Is there an angry husband after you again?” Artie pressed his double chin to his chest and laughed.
“My old man told you about that?”
“He may have said something over a shot or three.”
“This time I ran into trouble with some Russians.”
“That’s a nasty bunch to play with. I hate them.”
“Just let me hang out for a couple of hours. I don’t want to make trouble for you.”
Artie laughed. “I keep a .44 magnum for trouble with Russian bears.” Artie dug through a box and pulled out a bottle. “My doctor and wife conspired to get me off the whiskey, so I switched to this Turkish hooch. You ever taste Arak? The boys told me about it. It smells like licorice. Nobody knows you’ve been hitting the sauce. Let’s celebrate.” He sat two glasses on a case of tomato puree, his face shining red with pride.
“You made me drink Dad’s whiskey before.”
“Yeah, and the wife smelled it and gave me hell.”
“So, what are we celebrating?”
Artie threw back his drink. “I’ll think of something.” He laughed.
“The future.” Connor tilted his glass and the sweet alcohol burned his throat.
Artie tossed the glass over their shoulder and laughed as it shattered.
“You always said you were going to leave Long Beach and move to the mountains when you retired.”
Artie nodded. “I did it, too. But hell, you know, I missed the noise and the horns and car alarms. How can a person sleep when it’s dead quiet? It freaked me out. I thought one of my old perps was sneaking up on me.” He spun the cap onto the bottle.
“How long did you try it?”
“Six months. I was in the mountains with the pines and snow for six months.” He shoved Connor’s leg. “And do you know what I did when I got back?”
“Drank Arak?”
Artie waved a hand through the air. “No, before that. When I drove into Long Beach, I ran up to the first palm tree I saw and hugged it. I missed palm trees.” He suddenly got silent and looked around the storeroom. “Out there, the good and the bad, it’s part of me. It’s in my blood. And you’re Monte Marin’s boy, third-generation Long Beach brat. It’s part of you, too.”
“Maybe it is.”
“Look, why don’t you rest on the sofa? If anyone comes looking for you, the boys and I will break out the heat and send them running. I’ll be back in an hour to check on you.” Artie opened the door and stood there for a moment. “You know, I was glad I got to visit your old man before he passed. Me and him, boy, we used to shake up the west side.” He walked out into the pool hall.
Connor stretched out on the old plaid sofa. Before he closed his eyes, he sent an email: Case out of hand. Need help ASAP.
***
It seemed as though Connor has just closed his eyes when he woke to a hand on his shoulder, shaking him.
“Sorry I took so long,” said Artie, and shook him again.
“How long was I out?”
“About two hours. I took the liberty of sending Magi by your office. She sent a text and said there were two ugly, big men in a car on your street.”
“Yeah, the Igor twins, with a nasty machete.”
“I got you a nice shirt and jacket. You know, change clothes and blend in.” Artie dropped the clothes on his lap.
Connor held up the pink shirt. “Oh, yeah, disco is back.” He laughed and pulled off his pants and shirt. “Thanks for letting me cool off for a while.”
“Ha! You gave me a good excuse to drink Arak. Talking to you was like being with your old man again. What is wrong with that?”
Connor sighed. “Sometimes I miss him.”
“He was a tough bastard, but a good man. We all miss him.” That mischievous look came into Artie’s eyes. “Listen, I have a clean little DC9 with a 36-round mag that you could slip in the window of those Russians’ car and it’ll do a little dance for you. Thirty-six 9mm rounds will wash away a lot of grief. You drop it in the street and walk away. Nobody will ever know.”
“I wish I could.”
They hugged and walked to the front door. Connor had just stepped across the threshold when a tall, heavy man stepped in front of him and pushed him back inside the pool hall.
“Watch it!” shouted a customer.
Connor heard chairs slide across the floor behind him, and felt a hand in his back.
“You,” snapped Artie, shoving a pistol between Connor’s ribs and arm, into the big man’s gut. “I’m guessing you got about four ex-cops pointing firearms in your direction.”
“I’m a cop,” said Deutz.
Artie kept the snub-nosed revolver shoved in the guy’s gut.
“Artie,” said Connor. “This is Lieutenant Deutz. He’s a homicide detective.”
“Listen, I don’t mean to be rude,” said Deutz. “But I have to get out of sight.” He hurried to the bar, pulled out a stool and sat.
Connor and Artie followed and pulled up chairs.
“Hey Artie,” said Deutz. “I know who you are. I’ve heard stories about you and Monte Marin.”
“You followed me,” said Connor. “I had a feeling I was being followed, but couldn’t spot you.”
Deutz shrugged. “I’m a cop. What did you expect?”
“I’m guessing this isn’t a social call.”
Deutz looked around.
“Okay,” said Artie. “I know when I’m being to
ld to make myself scarce.” He stood up from the bar and pushed the bar stool in. “Don’t be sticking gum under my bar,” he said as he walked away.
Deutz waited until Artie was over by the pool tables, then leaned forward and nudged Connor. “Listen, when I came after you at that tram stop, you mentioned that somebody in my department was dirty. I started going back in my mind, working over old Russian mob cases, and a lot of things started making sense.”
“So why come here?”
“Because I think you’re right. This Redmond guy just showed up a few years back, and things started clicking. Just like that, he’s running gambling and prostitution and drugs. You can’t come into town cold and have things fall into place like that, unless you have the right people in your pocket.”
“Tell me something I don’t know?”
Deutz looked right and left, leaned forward and whispered: “Listen, I went way out on a fricking limb. I think I’m in trouble.”
“Oh, no. What’d you do?”
Deutz wiped his face and said, “I can’t investigate a cop without everyone in the station finding out. So, I went outside of the department and started a probe.”
Connor’s mouth fell open. “Listen, I don’t know if you’re playing me. But if you went rogue, you need to cover your ass. If the PD finds out, you could do time.”
Connor called to Artie, who was working the beer taps, and asked for a pen and a piece of paper. When the items arrived, he tore off the top sheet and wrote a phone number.
“You’re going to get yourself a disposable cell phone, or you’re going to call this number from a phone that can’t be traced. Set up a meeting with the guy at the other end. That’s how you’re going to protect your back. They’ll take you through everything.”
Deutz looked at the number and shook his head. “What are we talking here?”
Connor stood up, brushed off his pants, and waved to Artie. “Thanks for everything,” he called, and turned to walk away.
Deutz clamped onto Connor’s wrist, held up the paper and tapped it with a finger. “I got to know something about this.”
“I’m going to write on the bar with my finger. Are you ready?”
Deutz nodded.
Connor wrote three letters: FBI.