by Sam Cade
Jake peered over Malone’s shoulder. He saw a man talking in lowered tones to a fellow standing very close to him that had his back to Jake. The director was swarthy, with dark hair welcoming a distinguished influx of gray, black heavy-lidded eyes, and a two-inch scar on his left cheekbone. He was probably two hundred pounds on a six-foot frame. Solid guy.
Ms. Sarah interrupted the conversation. “Tommy, why don’t you introduce me to this young buck.”
Jake didn’t give him time. “Ma’am, I’m Jake Montoya. Nice to meet you.”
Ms. Sarah closed her eyes, cocked her head. “Mmmmmm. That was delightful, your accent. Now... you got a girlfriend?”
Jake wobbled his head. “Well, I never get lonely.”
Sarah smiled. “I bet not.”
“Tommy, grab another drink. Let me get to know Jake. What part of the south are you from?”
“Black Point, Alabama, near the coast on Mobile Bay.”
“Well, if you ever wanna live in a little Georgetown cottage, Jake, we’ve got one. I could do with another southerner nearby, a sane human being. Sometimes these yankee liberals grate my last nerve.” Sarah’s slow Georgia drawl took Jake back to the south.
“Ma’am, I don’t need to think about it. I’ll take it.”
8:55 A.M. JAKE WALKED INTO DIEGO DEL SOL’S YOGA STUDIO on Wisconsin Ave. The class started at nine. “Black Mambo” by the Glass Animals filtered through the sound system while the scent of lavender oil floated off some of the well-tended women.
He settled in next to a couple of forty-something hot mommies who both gave him a look. One grabbed his eye with a glance that said maybe she could be free for an hour or so after the class. Something was happening in the universe that he didn’t understand—when he was a kid, nobody’s mother looked like these babes.
Jake left the studio an hour later feeling relaxed and peaceful. Sixty yards down the street, he cut down a narrow alley to the entrance of a martial arts dojo. You had to know the place was there. Interesting clientele. International. Different languages. Different skin tones. The business had no sign, no hours on the door, no website, no Facebook page, no Twitter feed. But it was a spot known by the serious gladiators.
The smell hit him as soon as he walked through the door. It wasn’t tranquil lavender. It smelled of energy production and aggression and it smelled that way twenty-four hours a day.
Jake spotted Ben Staggers deep into the back of the room warming up with a speed rope like a mad man. The skinny rope whirred like an airline propeller and was barely visible, Staggers breathing hard to stay alive. He was five years retired out of the Army’s Delta Force, and well-known in D.C. for his skills in Muay Thai, a brutal form of martial arts.
Jake met Staggers at Ms. Sarah’s two years ago when she gave him a check for $100,000 for his animal cause. Stagger’s organization provided service animals for vets with severe PTSD.
They worked on Muay Thai technique for thirty minutes. The next thirty minutes was pure MMA. And it got rough. Jake put Staggers on the ground five times.
After the last take down, Staggers said, “Never fought a big guy as fast as you, Jake. I’m not sure I’m still having fun.” They laughed.
Jake was six-three, two hundred-twenty pounds with a flat plated chest. His arms and legs were as strong as coiled hawser steel.
“Give me ten minutes on the speed bag then I’m buying lunch at Stachowski's,” said Jake.
2:45 P.M. JAKE HAD TIME TO THINK ABOUT IT. Wild Bill? They weren’t close but there’s something about a person you’ve known almost every day of your life. The childhood connection was undefinable and hard to ignore. But, still, out of a trillion lawyers what made him special to somebody?
The decision came quickly. He was leaving for Black Point tomorrow morning. A Rolls Royce bombing in his hometown was way too interesting to ignore.
Checking his watch, Jake saw just enough time left in the day to hit the range and blow through a hundred rounds in his Glock.
5
9:15 A.M. NEXT DAY. JAKE’S TAHOE WAS ALMOST PACKED for the trip south. A Glock 21 with three extra magazines rested on the front seat alongside a fresh box of .45 caliber hollow points. A short-barreled Remington 870 pump-action scattergun in the tactical pistol grip configuration was packed in a thin, long rectangular carrying case that he slid under one side of Rowdy’s dog bed.
But the SUV looked more like a family headed to the coast on vacation. A blue kayak and a lemon-colored stand-up paddleboard were cinched tight on a Thule rack. Two bicycles, an old red Schwinn beach cruiser bought cheap on Hatteras and a beat-to-hell mountain bike, were latched onto a rear bike rack.
“What’s going on here?” It was Ms. Bradley walking over, just passing her rose garden with a brown paper lunch sack in her hand. Three hyped-up rescue dogs flanked her like a guard detail, taunted by the scent of the bag. Newton, Einstein, and Galileo. She taught junior high science when her husband was in Naval flight training.
“Taking a trip down to Black Point, Ms. Sarah.”
Sarah, almost eighty-one, wore a modest blue and white gingham checked dress with a crisp white cotton apron around her waist hiding a comfortably round midsection. She kept her cottony hair in a chic, short cut. Rimless glasses covered her cheerful eyes.
Sarah held up the brown bag and wiggled it. “I was bringing a few Virginia ham biscuits over for Rowdy. You’ll have to ask him if you can have one.”
“Oh, man, we love those things. Thanks.”
“Well, you boys be careful on that trip. You know I love you. Now give me a big hug... oh, hold it.” Ms. Sarah slipped a pen from a pocket in her apron, clicked it, took Jake’s hand and scribbled her phone number in his palm. “Never know when a cell phone will go on the fritz and I don’t like a man losing my number. Learned that when I was twenty at a little oyster shack in Pensacola called the Pussy Cat Raw Bar. How do you think I met the admiral?”
Jake chuckled. “Well, don’t you go pussycattin’ around here. The world ain’t like it used to be. I’ll call you every day. I promise you that.”
Right out of the driveway, Jake hit the radio. Baseball scores coming across a sports station. Forget it. Game was too slow. Popped it over to FM, zeroed in on D.C.’s classic rock 100.3.
You’re my blue sky, you’re my sunny day... He made a couple of turns, came out onto M street. Atlantic blue sky, not a cloud, perfect song. Sixty-seven edging to high seventies by lunchtime. People on the streets of Georgetown looked intent, stressed, hanging by their fingernails to the pace of Washington life.
Except for one guy.
Jake felt eyes on him as he sat first in line at a stoplight on M St. at Potomac, just outside of Dean &Deluca. Over to his left, starting to cross the street, was a sport walking a jet-black Labrador on a bright red leash, like the dog at the restaurant on Martha’s Vineyard. Lanky guy, early twenties, maybe six feet, bushy beard and dark curls coming out from under a beanie, like Zac Brown if he lost forty-five pounds. He wore a hemp green long sleeve tee with the Appalachian Trail logo over white three-quarter length yoga pants and a pair of flimsy two-buck drugstore flip-flops.
The guy teed up a lollygag stroll coming off the curb, made it mid-street to the Tahoe, turned at the front bumper, stared at Jake through the windshield, gave the hood two pops with his palm and hollered, “Allman Brothers! I like it!” “Blue Sky,” cranked up loud, was right in the middle of Allman and Betts playing the sweetest guitar solos ever laid to vinyl.
Jake, shades on, couldn’t help it. With his face creased into a Hollywood smile, he shot him the thumbs up sign. The hipster beamed some white teeth back at him, fired Jake a peace sign and then moseyed on as a free thinker who’d never met a schedule.
Jake pegged him for a neo-millennial urban mountain man hippie headed to a kiln to fire some pottery, stream down some bootlegged Phish and ramble on most of the day about his microscopic carbon footprint. The fellow probably called his mom twice a week to make sure she didn’t lose
the address to send his monthly subsistence check before she and her husband went to counseling to deal with their failures in parenting.
Light turned green, Jake eased on down M, sang out loud... “Don’t fly Mr. Bluebird, I’m just walking down the road.” Right palm keeping time on the steering wheel.
Damn fine day to be alive.
6
HEAT WAVES BILLOWED OFF THE BLACK ASPHALT. It was 92 degrees in South Carolina when Jake spotted the Sombrero Tower. The place was a slice of highway Americana, South of the Border.
The Pedro empire was a convoluted mishmash of garishly colored wacky architecture, screwball souvenir shops, fireworks, gasoline, burritos and a reptile lagoon. The place looked like the Vegas strip knocked up a Route 66 gas station.
Rowdy popped up wide-eyed and wary as the Tahoe came to a halt.
Jake stepped out of the truck, took in the crowd and pushed his hair back behind his ears. It hadn’t been cut in three months and was now well over his back collar. He wore gray hiking shorts and a black tee shirt that advertised Jake’s Game Day Grills.
Just as he placed Rowdy on the ground, the dog’s ears went up. He looked back past Jake, caught movement and went steely-eyed. A twitch jiggled his lip, about to bare teeth. Jake turned. A man and his son approached.
“Hey, that’s a great looking German shepherd. What happened to his leg?” said the dad.
“Whoa, hold up.” Jake put up his hand. “He’s skittish with people getting near me. That’s a Belgian Malinois, but he looks like a shepherd. He’s my service dog. Rowdy saved my life and got shot for his trouble. He’s a little high-strung right now.”
The kid, fourteen, maybe fifteen years old, said, “Jesus Christ, Dad, they shot the dog.”
“Hey, don’t take the Lord’s name like that, son.”
The kid looked up at Jake. “You a cop?”
“Yep.”
“You don’t look like a cop,” said the boy as he eyed Jake’s physique. “You do look like you could kick the shit out of somebody, though.”
“Jeremy! Stop the language,” said Dad.
The kid noticed Jake’s tee shirt. “Hey, my Dad’s got a Big Jake Grill at home.” The boy cocked a thumb towards his old man.
“Sure do, how ‘bout you, man?” said Dad.
“Yeah, I’ve got one up in Washington,” said Jake. “A friend gave me one for Christmas. Shirt came with it.” Jake pinched out the tee.
“Don’t mean to brag, but I played ball at Virginia Tech, you know, in Blacksburg. Started my senior year, placekicker,” said Dad. “But anyway, I tailgate every home game. Half the parking lot has those things. Hands down the best grill I’ve ever owned.”
The kid stared Jake down. Had a look in his eye. “Know what’s weird? You look like that guy.”
“Who?”
“The TV commercial guy. My Dad and I laugh our asses off at the one where that dumbass dude burns his house down using that cheap piece-of-shit grill sitting on the wobbly picnic table. You know, the house catches fire, burns completely down, the fire truck pumps water all over the ashes. Then the firemen and the dumbass go next door and eat burgers with the guy wearing an apron that looks like you, cooking on the Big Jake.”
“Last time for that language, son.” Guy popped his boy with a love smack on the back of the head, pointed to the car. “Go.” He gave Jake a wink. “Kids.”
In the oversized gift shop, Jake took a quick whizz, washed up, splashed cold water on his face, bought a Michael Crichton audiobook, Airframe, Grisham’s original hit, The Firm, two semi-frozen Gatorades, and five packs of trail mix.
The kid was back standing next to the truck when he returned. “Hey, we wanna hear the story.”
“The grill story?”
“Hell, no, man. The shootout. Where they popped your dog.”
“Here’s what you do. Pop up YouTube, punch in ‘FBI Virginia Beach.’ That’ll tell you all you need to know.”
“Fuck, yeah, man. Video.”
Wind scurries hit the truck as Jake twisted through the parking lot heading out to relaunch on I-95. A handful of fat water drops splattered the windshield like goose droppings. He glanced toward the southwest. Clouds were bunching up, going dark at the base. A few strings of jagged lightning shot through the sky. Too far away for thunder.
Jake jumped on the interstate and quickly had the truck running eighty. He had a detective to meet in Charleston. He slid The Firm into the CD player. It started with Mitch McDeere, a new grad lawyer from Harvard taking a job in Memphis for a law firm fronting for the mob. Lawyers, a shady bunch.
Grisham had a great story rolling, but Jake’s mind drifted back to the kid. And, The Story.
IT WAS EARLY MARCH WHEN THE CALL CAME INTO JAKE’S D.C OFFICE. Still cold, not a hint of spring. A Virginia Beach PD detective on the line.
The detective said he had a lead in the White Dragons case. A phone number and possible address to Linda Chastang, former wife of Billy Chastang, the leader of the Dragons. Billy had been underground for a couple years.
Jake drove down from D.C. the day after the call, took a meeting with the DEA, ATF and some local police agencies in Virginia’s Tidewater area, keeping everybody apprised of developments in the case. Jake left the building at 4:50 with a date for a steak dinner in an hour and a half with one of his old football teammates who was a head ball coach at a large high school in the area.
Linda Chastang might have something interesting to share, but unlikely. She would know that having her eyes carved out of her head by Billy Chastang might not be the best way to spend an evening.
The Tahoe’s GPS brought Jake and Rowdy straight to the location, a subdivision called Brook Run on the edge of the Virginia Beach city limits. Easing through the entrance, he quickly found 533 Maple Tree Lane.
It was a cold, gray afternoon feeling the remnants of the mild nor’easter that blew in on the coast just after lunch yesterday. The rain blew out overnight leaving only the deepening chill. Light was fading. It would be dark in thirty minutes.
Jake pulled his SUV into the driveway of a nondescript tract home in the middle-class working subdivision. Every house was homogenized, a functional one-story brick ranch, not a hint of architectural cachet, 2000 square feet or so, probably three bedroom-two baths. He pictured Home Depot gas grills sitting on small concrete patios with an accompanying black metal wire table and chairs behind each house.
Landscaping was minimal, low maintenance. Trim boxwoods nestled the façade with close-cropped winter zoysia grass carpeting every home on the street.
Jake pulled into the short concrete drive. A late model Honda Civic was parked in front of the garage door. An economy model that fit the neighborhood price point.
Twenty-four months earlier, the FBI began an investigative effort into the workings of a motorcycle gang that had a strong presence from Georgia to northern New Jersey, the White Dragons. The crew had an appetite for excessive violence while they executed their primary mission, drug distribution. As a sideline, they strong-armed into large shipping warehouses at night and made off with tractor-trailer loads of merchandise for the black market. Warehouse employees were always beaten. Three people had been killed over the last year in two states. The Feds were now driving the train deep up their ass.
He parked right beside the Civic, sat in the truck and stared. Nothing fit. No way was anybody associated with the White Dragons living in this tidy place.
The Honda was shiny with no counterculture propaganda of any sort stuck to the car. The rear window had a decal that said UVA Wahoos. Motorcycle gangs don’t send their kids to the University of Virginia, do they?
His stomach was growling. Steak and Bloomin’ onion thoughts. Meeting at Outback.
He popped the electronic lock for the rear window in the truck, the dog’s exit. The glass hatch glided up and open. Rowdy, who was trained in Europe, was a vicious menace with a hair trigger. He went most places with Jake.
Rowdy stood and scanned
as the window opened. Dog-On-Duty, Jack.
Jake slipped out of the Tahoe, stood there for a moment, and looked down both ends of the street. A few more cars coming home, done for the day. He walked all the way around the Civic. Rowdy’s eyes were fixed to the path Jake walked.
Jake wore a navy Italian wool winter-weight sport coat over a crisp white oxford with stone colored khakis, a yellow/blue Repp tie, loose at the collar. Granite colored Merrell hiking shoes covered his feet, soft and comfortable, but allowed speed if he got in a foot chase. A Glock .45 sat on his left hip under the jacket, holstered in a cross-draw configuration.
He took a long look in the passenger side window of the Civic. A curtain in the house parted an inch as he scoured the car. He didn’t see it. Rowdy’s eyes caught the brief movement. The dog’s hackles raised with aggression likely right behind it. Jake vested him just before entering the neighborhood. The vest was custom Kevlar by American K-9 that shielded most of his trunk and blended with his coat.
Jake bounded up the two steps onto the eight by ten-foot concrete stoop. He readied for what would most likely be a short conversation. He figured a retired bookkeeper or dental hygienist or high school librarian, but probably a nurse. The Civic was pristine. That was how those professions liked their lives, neat and orderly. Biker chick? Couldn’t picture it.
Steak thoughts bore down on him. He made his decision right there. T-bone.
His finger blipped the doorbell. Didn’t hear a ring, maybe broken. The entry had an aluminum framed screen door in front of a solid wood door with a horseshoe knocker. The screen door was great for spring evenings. But not for today.
It was forty-two degrees when he stepped out of the Tahoe. A chilled breeze tossed his hair when he walked around the Honda.
He pulled the screen door open, had his hand in the air ready to deliver a light tap. Before his hand touched the knocker, the door opened. There stood a wiry female, shoulder length dark hair, early forties, with a hard face and suspicious eyes. He smelled cigarette smoke on her. She was softened by a conservative dress, maybe Talbot’s, no hose, low-heeled black pumps. A woman with a job? Maybe.