Get Real

by Erik Carter

  “Why, hey there, Miss Jane,” Rebecca said in that thick southern accent. “Good day at the school?”

  “It was. Very good In fact,” Jane said. “I helped a couple kids get through a little argument. Nothing serious. No one came to me about dead pets, no abusive parents. All in all a pretty pleasant day. You remember what it’s like working at an elementary school, Miss Rebecca.”

  Jane was playing along, and though as a mental health counselor she knew it was important for her to take John’s condition seriously, Jane couldn’t help but feel that she was literally playing along. Playtime. Make believe. Because she wondered how in that brain of his could John possibly understand anything about being a woman or being black or being a Southerner or being a teacher.

  A smile came to her brother’s face.

  “Oh, goodness, yes,” Rebecca replied. “The most rewarding years of my life, sugar.”

  Jane nodded and went into the kitchen where she dropped off her bag and put her keys on the small hook by the refrigerator. When she returned to the living room, Jonathan was looking at her, and when he spoke, it was a brother.

  “Hey,” he said.

  Jane smiled, relieved.

  He glanced around with that slightly confused, slightly tired look he had after he’d spent a good deal of time as one of his alters.

  “I lost time again,” he said. “Was it Rebecca?”

  Jane nodded.

  “Thought so.” He leaned over his materials.

  She stepped beside him and looked over his shoulder. The collection of books and articles he’d borrowed from the Topeka library was spread out before him, seemingly haphazardly.

  “Find anything new about your conspiracy theory?” Jane said. She put a slight emphasis on the word conspiracy. She’d been playfully teasing him about the research he’d been doing.

  John smiled. “It’s not some crackpot theory. Check this out.”

  Jane leaned over his shoulder. She hugged him as she did so. “What you got?”

  She could feel the excited energy flowing through him. This was where John was happiest—when he was investigating. He’d wanted to be a reporter or a historian, so doing his amateur historical work was a way that he could feel productive. And it made him happy.

  And his being happy made her happy.

  John spoke quickly. “This guy, Abe Ruef, controlled all of San Francisco. Eugene Schmitz, the mayor of San Francisco during the earthquake, was his pawn. You know what Schmitz was before becoming mayor? A violinist! No joke. He ran the musicians’ union. That’s how the two of them met. Ruef knew that ‘Handsome Gene’ Schmitz would be an easy puppet.”

  Jane picked up the picture of Schmitz. “Ooh, he actually is pretty handsome.”

  He really was. Quite dashing. She handed the photo to John and gave him a skeptical look.

  “But how would Ruef and Schmitz have covered up the earthquake info?”

  “Schmitz created the Committee of 50 on the very day of the earthquake—a group that would immediately come up with plans for disaster recovery. A completely illegal group, I might add. In his defense, he did include rivals, but the total number of dead, 478, was completely bogus.”

  Jane shook her head. “It’s common knowledge that most of the deaths and destruction took place from the fires that came after the actual earthquake.”

  “Yes, but you’re telling me in a city of 400,000 people and turn-of-the-century building standards, only 478 people died in an earthquake that’s been estimated to be at least 7.9 on the Richter scale? Nah. Get real.”

  “How could so many be so easily forgotten?”

  Jonathan rummaged through his materials, brought out a photocopy of what looked like census information. “Because a lot of them were viewed as second-class citizens.” He looked at her with intensity and that sparkle he got when he was reaching conclusions. “Because a lot of them were in Chinatown.”

  Jane looked for a moment longer at the note she had scratched down.

  NEXT, A STRIKE FOR THOSE

  ERASED FROM HISTORY

  She set the sheet of paper down. She knew where to find her brother.

  “Chinatown…”

  Chapter Nineteen

  A small, scratchy voice spoke in Dale’s ear.

  “You’re sure about this, Conley?”

  Dale leaned his mouth slightly toward the microphone clipped to his collar.

  “Next, a strike for those erased from history. Oh, yes. I’m sure. Chinatown. This is where people were erased from history. All those deaths forgotten.”

  Dale was on Grant Avenue in the heart of Chinatown, a couple blocks up from the famous Dragon’s Gate. The sidewalk was filled with people—both local Chinese and tourists—as well as the wares of the various markets. Fruits and vegetables—many of which Dale had never seen—herbs, souvenirs, fish packed in ice. There was a lingering scent of raw seafood in the air and a constant drone of voices. Stringed red lanterns were draped over the street, between the buildings, and the shades on the tops of the lamp posts were shaped a bit like Chinese pagodas.

  Dale tried to remain as casual, as inconspicuous as he could while he kept his attention on The Sapphire Dragon, a dim sum restaurant two store fronts up. An Alfonsi front. A block away, he’d positioned Yorke to keep an eye on another Alfonsi-tied restaurant, Emerald Moon.

  Dale heard Yorke sigh in his ear. “God, I hope you’re right about this. Beau already distrusts you, and here I am, the screwup, following your lead.”

  Dale wished she’d cut the chatter. He brought his mouth closer to his collar again.

  “This is it, Yorke. Only two known Alfonsi fronts in Chinatown. Since Felix has somehow mistaken Alfonsi for Ruef, he’ll be attacking one of them.”

  “We’ve been here an hour and a half already.”

  “And we could be here all day,” Dale said. Yorke was starting to frustrate him. “And— Wait! I see them.”

  A brown Chevette rolled past Dale, and he saw Jonathan Fair in the passenger seat. It pulled into a no-parking zone close to The Sapphire Dragon. Its caution lights began to blink.

  “It’s them, Yorke. Fair’s in the passenger seat. And there’s the driver from the bank job. Get your ass over here.”

  “On my way.”

  Dale leaned forward a bit, looked over his sunglasses, studied the situation intently. He wouldn’t make a move until they did.

  “They’re talking. I can see a bit of the driver. His profile.” Dale squinted. “Caucasian. Brown hair. Average build.”

  “And they’re still in the car?”

  “Affirmative. It appears as though— Hold on, something’s happening. Movement. They’re ... arguing.”

  In the car, the conversation had become animated. Both men were clearly shouting. They gestured wildly with their hands.

  “What the hell is going on in there?” Dale said.

  Chapter Twenty

  Jane was so happy she couldn’t contain her smile.

  She stood among the crowds on Grant Avenue in Chinatown. She knew that the Alfonsis had little hold on the region because as much as she wanted to erase all memories she had of her father’s “business,” Big Paul had done his best to try to groom her and her twin brother before they broke free from him during college. As such, Jane remembered that Chinatown was Fair turf with only The Sapphire Dragon and Emerald Moon under Alfonsi control. Of the two, The Sapphire Dragon was the most active, a major money-laundering spot just outside the Financial District.

  Jane had learned a long time ago that her brother’s alters seemed to have access to John’s breadth of knowledge. John knew where the Alfonsi establishments were located in Chinatown, and since Felix had been attacking solely Alfonsi establishments, Jane had reasoned that this most relevant Alfonsi location in Chinatown would be where Felix would strike.

  And she was right.

  When the car pulled up outside the restaurant, she saw him through the windshield in the passenger seat.

  John
.

  It was the first time she’d seen him in eight months.

  The car had been parked for a couple minutes, as John and the driver sat in deep discussion. Then their conversation quickly took a turn for the worst. Jane watched, stunned, as the two of them began screaming at each other.

  And Jane hadn’t a clue who the other man was...

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Felix looked at the restaurant and back to Mr. Jones, who again sat in the operator’s position behind the steering wheel of the horseless carriage. They were in Chinatown, and though the quake was still fresh, the sidewalks were thick with Chinamen, and the road was very much passable. Most of the buildings, too, were intact. In fact, as he looked at the structures now, they all seemed to be intact. Had he not noticed a toppled building only moments earlier?

  Nothing seems right, does it?

  That voice again. In his head. His mania.

  “Mr. Jones, no,” Felix said. “I refuse to go along with this until you explain to me how this establishment is connected to Abe Ruef.”

  Mr. Jones smacked a hand against the flat surface beneath the carriage’s windscreen. The machine shook beneath them.

  “I keep telling you, this is connected with Alfonsi. And like I told you at the bar, Alfonsi is in cahoots with Ruef.”

  Don’t trust him, the voice said.

  “Jones, I do not understand the connection with this Alfonsi character. Why would Abe Ruef work with an Italian? This does not make sense. And I am beginning to think it never will. This is the end of our partnership. I thank you for for your assistance to this point, but I will be completing the mission on my own.”

  He unhinged the carriage’s door and put a foot on the sidewalk beyond.

  Then Jones’ hand clamped down on his arm.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  El Vacío looked down the scope toward the street below, and as Jonathan Fair stepped out of the Chevette, the crosshairs fell right over the target’s back.

  He took a slow breath, released it, and tensed his finger over the trigger. Right as he was about to squeeze, the driver’s hand yanked Fair back into the car. It was a violent movement, and it took El Vacío by surprise.

  “Get back here!” the driver screamed.

  He’d shouted so loudly that El Vacío could clearly hear each word all the way from his position atop the five-story building across the street, leaning over the parapet with his rifle.

  Fair and the driver had argued in the car for several minutes, and El Vacío thought nothing more of it than pre-robbery jitters. Perfectly understandable.

  But now, El Vacío realized something.

  When the driver had shouted at Fair and yanked him back so violently, a quick rush of analysis swept through El Vacío’s mind. He had done his homework on Jonathan Fair—he never struck a target without doing so—and he’d learned that Fair’s notorious mental issues gave him a number of personalities who could be in control of the man’s body at any given time. One of these personalities was a four-year-old boy. Named Andy.

  And if the driver yanked Fair back like that, shouted at him as one would to a child ... could that mean that Fair wasn’t himself right now?

  What if he was one of his other personalities?

  What if he was Andy?

  El Vacío had one rule. One exclusion.

  He didn’t kill children.

  His youngest target to date had been seventeen years old. She was the daughter of an East German political leader, and she’d had relations with Westerners in Berlin. The whore had gone to a CIA-funded party and willingly ended up as the entertainment. El Vacío didn’t judge his client for having his own child executed. He never judged. Because he was completely impartial—aside from his one rule. No children. And this individual in Berlin, while young, had been no child.

  But his current situation was different. If Jonathan Fair truly had different personalities, he could very well be the little boy right now. After all, who would talk to a grown man like that? Yank him by the arm and scream at him?

  El Vacío would need to hold back, study the target more, make additional assessments. And this angered El Vacío because he knew that his client—who claimed to be well acquainted with Fair—would be aware of whether or not Andy made frequent appearances.

  El Vacío had one rule. And everyone knew about it.

  One goddamn rule.

  He mind flashed on his client. And he wanted to crush him. But he would give the man the benefit of the doubt for now. He would continue doing his homework.

  There was one thing that could potentially hinder his observation of Jonathan Fair, though.

  El Vacío had spotted a cop.

  Plain-clothes—jeans, brown shirt with the sleeves rolled up, sunglasses. The man stood on the corner, watching The Sapphire Dragon. Likely he would swoop in when Fair made his attack on the restaurant.

  And El Vacío would have to stop it.

  The man had a thin, clear, coiled wire slipping up his neck from under his shirt to a concealed speaker in his ear, and he’d been talking into a microphone clipped inside his collar—covertly, but El Vacío had noticed. He also wore a fake beard. It was an excellent fake, but El Vacío knew a fake when he saw one.

  El Vacío had planned on eliminating Jonathan Fair right in front of the cop. He had a good escape plan through the building he was perched upon. But now that he wasn’t going to kill Fair, he’d have to do something about the cop.

  He swung the rifle around.

  The crosshairs landed on the cop.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Dale nodded at Yorke as she strode up to him then quickly returned his gaze to the car.

  “Jonathan Fair just tried to get out of the brown Chevette,” Dale said, motioning subtly with a nod toward the car. “The driver screamed at him and pulled him back in.”

  “What the hell?”

  Farther down the street, the argument in the car continued. It was so intense with their wild gestures that the Chevette was rocking. The passenger door opened, and Fair stepped out again.

  Dale could just hear Fair’s voice as he said to the driver, “Our agreement is terminated.”

  The driver yelled out to him. “Felix, wait!”

  Fair stopped, put his hand on the roof of the car, and ducked his head inside. Their conversation continued, voices muffled by the distance.

  Dale gave a quick glance to Yorke. Her mouth was open. Complete confusion.

  And for a moment, Dale remained confused as well. But then a realization came to Dale.

  A sick, stomach-dropping realization.

  It had been the way that the driver had screamed at Fair. That’s what tipped Dale off. The man’s commanding, violent tone. The complete lack of respect.

  This assignment had presented Dale with an absurd amount of abstract questions, each more baffling than the last. Was Jonathan Fair really acting as another person? Was he seeing the world through 1906 eyes? Could it be coincidence that he was striking establishments that belonged to the rival crime family?

  Now, like so many times when Dale had a breakthrough moment during a case, all the questions were getting answered in his head. The dark fog of confusion was giving way to bright, piercing reason.

  “Conley...” Yorke said, eyeballing him. “What’s with that look?”

  He turned to her.

  “Yorke, we’ve had this all wrong. Felix doesn’t have help. Felix is being used. He’s been hitting Alfonsi establishments. Someone understands Fair’s condition and is exploiting him to attack the Alfonsis, convincing him that he’s attacking Abe Ruef.” Dale pointed toward the Chevette. “Fair isn’t the one behind all this.”

  It was the big break in the case that Dale had been hoping for. But he was having a hard time savoring it.

  Because there were few things Dale despised more than seeing a helpless person being manipulated.

  Yorke nodded slowly, agreeing with his conclusion, as she continued to watch the car. Her ey
es suddenly went wide. “Look!”

  Dale whipped back around.

  The driver stepped out of the car, pleading with Fair to get back inside.

  “It’s Lee Kimble,” Yorke said.

  Dale recognized him. The man from the mugshot he’d studied back at the Hall of Justice. Round cheeks, round nose, curly hair. One of the other escapees from the Second Alcatraz. The former assistant district attorney.

  “Come on!” Dale said.

  They darted toward the Chevette.

  It was then that the bullet struck, inches from Dale’s hand.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  There were screams from a couple blocks away—the sounds of chaos—and Marco jumped off the wall he’d been leaning against. The people on the sidewalk around him pointed to the east. Gasps. Rapid, frightened Cantonese.

  Marco had been trying to remain as inconspicuous as possible as he casually rested against the building, wearing nondescript clothing—corduroys, a polo shirt, shades—but now he had to risk drawing some attention to himself. He quickly pulled his walkie-talkie from its concealed position.

  “Was that us?” he said. “Was that us? They were supposed to wait for us, goddammit! We were supposed to go at the same time!”

  Another team had been positioned a couple blocks away from Marco’s, poised to strike one of Big Paul’s tourist shops.

  There was a slight pause before the response came. Sounds of concerned voyeurism surrounded Marco as people continued looking to the east.

  “Negative,” a voice said from his walkie-talkie. “Something’s going down outside The Sapphire Dragon. Shots fired.”

  “The Sapphire Dragon?” Marco said. “That’s one of our joints. Jesus Christ, the Fairs are hitting us at the same time we’re hitting them!”

  Marco thought this over. For only a moment. There was precious little time. The two families were simultaneously attacking each other. Only blocks apart.