Floodgate

by Johnny Shaw

  “Throw me in the water. I swim like an eel,” Hiro said. “Boys in 893, they ain’t never known what to do with this Casian. Been their utility infielder mostly. A little bit of this. A little bit of that. I’m ready for some straight-up action. Point me toward the front line, hoss. You find me a fight, and I’ll stay busier than a one-armed monkey with two peckers.”

  “Oh, man,” Rocco said. “You’re going to fit right in.”

  CHAPTER 32

  When our eyes met, I was sure we had made a connection. That we understood each other. I’ve always believed that the eyes never lie. Maybe that only applies to humans.

  —From apprentice zookeeper David Downing’s statement after being asked why he had entered the tiger cage at the Auction City Zoo. His injuries required three surgeries and more than one hundred stitches (1972).

  The safe house was a dozen blocks from where Frank Whittle lived. They had driven past the building on their last outing to Blackstreet Hollow.

  From the outside the house appeared abandoned, what a real estate agent would generously call a fixer-upper. Dead lawn, peeling paint, missing roof shingles. A sore thumb in the otherwise well-kept, middle-class neighborhood. A bank foreclosure or a death in the family.

  Pilar, Mirna, and Agnes posted up a block away. Andy pulled the ice cream truck to the curb, and he, Rocco, and Hiro joined the women.

  “No movement. Nobody’s gone in or out. Nothing,” Pilar said.

  “Could be booby-trapped,” Rocco said.

  “This is where they’ve been holing up,” Andy said. “I don’t think they expected us to find this place.”

  “Don’t matter when you got a bomb guy,” Hiro said.

  “You’re Ben’s replacement? New 893?” Pilar held out her prosthetic arm to Hiro. “I’m Pilar. This is Agnes. She’s part of the gang. Mirna’s just helping out for the day.”

  He shook the hook end of her prosthetic without losing a step or making it awkward. “Hey, y’all. I’m Hiro. Rocky and Andy here, they gave me the thirty-second version. I was just saying that if you got a bomber, some shit’s going to explode.”

  “Look for tripwires, careful opening doors. Not all of us should go,” Rocco said, looking around at them. “We could wait, but a second salvo is coming.”

  “You guys are the pros. I’m the new guy,” Hiro said, still smiling. “But if I get blown to bits, I’m going to want a couple days’ paid vacation.”

  Rocco and Andy found a hiding place behind the building. A tall row of junipers against the back fence created excellent cover. They would take the back door. Pilar and Mirna would hit the front. Agnes and Hiro stayed on the street as backup. As simple as simple got. Elaborate plans had more working parts to screw up. In an effort to make it more official, they synchronized their watches.

  Norman Hopewell was a mercenary, and by reputation a good one. Ipo Kahulamu dealt explosions, and there were few as unpredictable as a munitions man. He had killed Ben. The Thief River Killer, that psycho, was a whole different story. Andy couldn’t figure out the madness of Gray’s plan where letting that guy back into society was a good idea. They were about to crash a wild party. There would be casualties.

  Five minutes to get into position at the back door.

  “No hurry,” Rocco said. “The less we’re exposed, the less chance of losing surprise.”

  Andy nodded.

  “I appreciate you coming along, son,” Rocco said.

  “I would’ve been bored back at the candy factory.”

  “This won’t be boring. That’s for damn sure.”

  They sat in silence. The sounds of a quiet neighborhood: sprinklers and barking dogs.

  “You ever go fishing?” Andy asked.

  Rocco gave him a funny look. “Used to drop a line off the rocks under TKO. Near the concrete pillars. The fish we caught always smelled like gasoline from the rubber factory runoff. Three eyes, no scales, and a huge dick. What made you think of fishing?”

  “Making conversation.”

  “This father-son outing is going to be a little more intense.” Rocco looked at his watch again. “Let’s set up at the back door, son.”

  Andy spotted the doghouse when his feet hit the dirt patch of the backyard. Rocco landed next to him, holding his lower back as he rose.

  “Getting old is like having the flu all the time,” Rocco whispered.

  Andy pointed at the doghouse. Rocco drew his pistol and crept to it. He looked inside and shook his head. He waved Andy toward the back door.

  Andy pulled his own weapon and crept low. He hadn’t been on an honest-to-goodness raid since he’d been in uniform. He felt the adrenaline rise, heart beating quickly, vision sharp, everything moving in fast motion and slow motion simultaneously. He silently prayed that he didn’t accidentally shoot himself or someone on his side.

  Rocco kneeled at the back door. He pulled out a lock pick set and went to work. The lock was nothing fancy. Andy could open it in a half minute. He wondered if his old man had better lock skills. Question answered. It took Rocco less than twenty seconds. The old man glanced at his watch, turned the knob, and slowly opened the back door.

  The two of them froze. Waited. Andy’s leg shook. He had to piss. A pigeon landed on a wire that ran from the house to the alley. It looked bored. The smoke that rose from the city looked like nimbus clouds. Peaceful from the backyard of a gang of escaped convicts’ safe house.

  The pigeon flew away when the front door crashed open. A loud bang. Shouting and breaking things. Their cue. Rocco threw the door open and rushed inside, Andy right behind him.

  One corner of the mudroom held shrink-wrapped boxes on a pallet: canned chili and bottled water. Lots of Spam, as well. A washing machine and dryer on the other side. A pile of dirty laundry on the ground. A pungent smell filled the room, like food left out.

  Rocco rushed into the next room. Andy stopped. Protruding from the laundry, he spotted a foot. With the memory of the Chief’s camouflaged men, Andy trained his gun on it. He kicked at the clothes where he guessed the head was.

  The dry eyes of a long-haired dead man stared back at him. Wispy goatee, flaking skin. The man hadn’t died recently. A bullet hole dotted his forehead. An ant crawled from the dead man’s nostril.

  “Don’t move,” Rocco yelled from another room.

  “Hands! Hands!” Pilar shouted.

  Andy grabbed a Members Only jacket from the floor and covered the dead man’s face.

  In the living room, a large man sat at a long folding table. He looked like a Buddha, rooted and unyielding. With long wavy hair, the Hawaiian wore a disarming, beatific grin. The giant man did not look surprised or afraid of the guns pointed at him.

  On the table sat all the makings of serious physical destruction—an array of components, tools, timers, and bricks of plastic explosives. Everything connected by a weave of wires. It might or might not be a completed device. From a layman’s perspective, it was difficult to tell which did what. No one was impatient to find out.

  Directly in front of the Hawaiian goliath lay photographs in a row: images of Kate, Rocco, Agnes, Pilar, and Ben. The members of Floodgate. A big X blacked out Ben Jigo’s face.

  “Ipo Kahulamu,” Rocco said. “We expected Hopewell and Henry, too. Wanted to say hello to all of you.”

  “I am Ipo,” the man said. He picked up Rocco’s photo, held it up, and nodded.

  “You murdered a friend of mine,” Rocco said.

  “The man in the car,” Kahulamu said. He held up Pilar’s photographs. “Not my best work. Rushed. Effective but lacking nuance.”

  “Bombs have nuance?” Pilar asked.

  “In the right hands.”

  “Why are explosives guys always bananas?” Rocco said.

  “Bananas? Is that a slight to my Hawaiian heritage?”

  Rocco shook his head, seemingly worried that he had been inadvertently racist to the bomber.

  “I know you.” Kahulamu pointed at Andy. He reached to a separate sta
ck of papers, pulling out Andy’s picture.

  “Are those all the targets?” Andy said.

  “Who is she?” Kahulamu motioned with his chin toward Mirna. “I would remember that scarred face.”

  “I’m your worst nightmare,” Mirna said.

  “You are beautiful.” He turned back to Rocco. “The black one outside should join us. And the one that wears red. Did she die from her injuries?”

  Pilar took a step forward. He turned to her and shook his head. She stopped.

  “She’s alive,” Pilar said.

  “Is there a chance she will not survive?”

  “She’ll live,” Rocco said.

  “Too bad. I was hoping to be done.”

  “You are. It’s over,” Rocco said.

  “You think you’ve caught me?” he said. Laughter followed. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

  The big Hawaiian lifted a hand from beneath the table. He held a grip detonator with wires leading both onto the table and somewhere below him. A dead man’s switch.

  “Be careful with those guns,” Kahulamu said. “The moment I let go, a dog-choking amount of explosives will detonate. You, me, Mrs. Macintosh, and all her cats across the street, we all go boom. Ua Mau ke Ea o ka ‘Āina i ka Pono.”

  The calm Hawaiian bomber showed no nervousness. Andy couldn’t say the same for himself or the others.

  “As everyone is deciding what to do next, do you mind me asking a question?” Andy said. “Who is the dead man in the laundry room?”

  Rocco turned to Andy, one eyebrow arched.

  “Ronald?” Ipo said. “He never fit in. Annoyed Hopewell from the start. Two different personalities. The gecko and the bat. Ronald was a sadist, which can often be overlooked in this profession, but he got mouthy. Hopewell made a decision. I did not argue.”

  “Ronald Mark Henry,” Andy said. “The Thief River Killer.”

  Ipo nodded. “You cannot trust a man with three first names.”

  “If you detonate the bomb,” Rocco said, “you would be killing yourself.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “Really?” Andy asked.

  Kahulamu ignored Andy. “I made a different arrangement than the others. Hopewell fights for himself. I fight for a cause. The money I earn will finance my people’s movement, regardless of my survival. Sometimes the most selfish actions prove selfless. I would rather die on my terms knowing that I died for what is good.”

  “What if I told you that you would be safe?” Rocco said. “Left unhurt.”

  “Then I would know that you are someone I cannot trust.”

  “So we have ourselves a standoff,” Rocco said.

  “A Mexican standoff,” Kahulamu said, giving Pilar a wink.

  “I’m Puerto Rican, que gran hijo de la puta,” Pilar said, and leapt at the man who held their lives in his hands.

  1929

  LONG PAST DAYS

  The priest, the Chinaman, the Wretch, the copper, and Fat Jimmy talked for hours in the middle of that street. Leaving us to stand and wait. Life and death in their hands. The Chinese sat on the ground. The Wretches remained on their feet. The coppers stood at attention. Eyeballing the criminals around them. Wanting to open fire on the scum of society.

  Fat Jimmy’s men let nervousness get the better of them. In the shadow of the gibbet, a good joke was welcome. Or hell, a bad one.

  “I loaned a Chinaman money once. After two weeks, I raised the vig. He asked why. I said ‘fluctuations.’ He answered, ‘Well, fluck you wops.’”

  The other men laughed nervously. A few glanced at the Chinese. Out of earshot. Didn’t mean they couldn’t hear. The Chinese had their mystical ways.

  “You think it’s over? The fighting?” the girl asked me.

  We had moved away from the others. Huddled in a corner. Their nerves gave me nerves. I still didn’t like the way the other men looked at her. As if she was the last chance for something. Something from before.

  I thought about Ma. About our room. Our life. Our home was gone. The impact of war. The crater of a bomb. Most of the city looked burnt up. The fleeing filled the bridge, sagging in the middle. Peace on a battlefield only meant clearing the bodies.

  Didn’t mean there wasn’t hope. That there wasn’t a future. As uncertain as what that could mean.

  “They wouldn’t talk this long unless something was being worked out,” I said. “They got to listen to a priest. He talks to God.”

  “The Chinese have different gods.”

  “Maybe those gods know the priest’s God. Maybe they golf together. They can talk it over on the back nine.”

  Her smile made me feel like I had done something good.

  “I’m glad I met you today,” she said. “Even if it was in the sewer.”

  “Wouldn’t never have met otherwise.”

  “Maybe it was fate.”

  A whistle blared from the center of the street. Everybody reacted. Bodies shifting. Sounds of surprise. I turned with everyone else.

  Fat Jimmy gestured toward his men. Yelled. “Sal, I need you and three men. Men you trust. Men that can fight. Men you are sure of. Grab them and join the party.” The other leaders delivered the same message to their men. Multiple languages. Variations on the idea.

  Sal nodded. Turned to the men. Scanned their faces. Walked among them. He put a hand on Giorgio Alfieri’s shoulder. I knew Giorgio. Ironically named Jolly George. A man you would want in a fight. But nowhere else. The humorless man said, “Tell me how you want me to die.”

  Sal pointed at Marco Lupo. Nobody questioned that choice. The Red Wolf was feared in every corner of the city. Marco nodded and stepped forward.

  And then Sal turned to me. A nod. I pointed at myself. He nodded again and said, “Rocky.” Why would he pick me? I didn’t even have a good nickname, just a Y on the end of my name.

  The others stared at me. Angry. Jealous. Insulted. But grateful it wasn’t them.

  I turned to the girl. “I’ll be right back. I think.”

  Sal, Giorgio, Marco, and me. Three men and a boy. Walking across the street to our fate.

  We joined the men from the other groups. Enemies united. Four Chinese from their camp. Four Wretches, all different shades of brown. Four uniformed cops, hands on their clubs. We all were surprised when four priests armed with tommy guns walked out of an alley.

  To say that the moment was tense would be like saying the Great War was a bit of a dustup. Murder and fear hung in the air. Were we about to gladiator it out?

  The Chinese leader pointed at me. Shouted in his crazy language. The priest translated. Said to Fat Jimmy, “He thinks that one’s too young.”

  “He’s a kid, Sal,” Fat Jimmy said. “What about Carlo?”

  Sal shook his head. “Maybe a kid this morning. Not no more. Not after today. Stood with me. Made it from the park to here. Survived the fire and them slants to get here. He’s my pick.”

  I felt as if I should say something. Then that I shouldn’t. I didn’t.

  Fat Jimmy shrugged and turned to the priest. “You heard the man.”

  The priest said some Chinese. Probably didn’t use the word slant. The leader grunted, or it may have been a word. Weird language. Whatever it was, I passed the test.

  “The war is over,” the priest said, translating as he went.

  My body relaxed a little. No longer holding my breath. Hands peeled from the curl of a fist.

  “We still have an important battle,” the priest said. “To win it, you’re going to work together.”

  They were going to divide us into four groups. One of each of us in each group. Me, a Chinaman, a priest, a Wretch, and a copper. Enemies, now men-at-arms. We were to walk the streets and deliver the message of peace. If that didn’t work, we would force it on them.

  It sounded crazy, but I was ready to do what I was told. Being on my own had been too damn scary.

  Everyone was going to work together for a while. The Trust would work with the Wretches and
Chinese. Put out the fires, search for survivors, grab power. Businesses on hold. The cops would be cops, but leave the gangs alone. Together we would rebuild the city. Our way.

  In a back room of the baths, Fat Jimmy kept an arsenal. The others had already found their weapons. I stared, overwhelmed. All new to me. Never used more than what was lying around or what someone handed me. Rows of guns, blades, and bludgeons. Fat Jimmy collected destruction. Firearms of kinds I had never seen. A collection of pipes, both steel and lead. If not for the other weapons, a hardware store display. Well maintained but not unused. Scuffs on every club. Stains on knives. Notches on guns.

  “You must have made an impression,” the girl said, walking into the room behind me.

  “It feels like history,” I said. “With me in the middle.”

  “You made an impression on me. That’s for sure.”

  “I’m not going to do anything until I know you’re safe.”

  She looked at a revolver on the table. Picked it up. Felt its weight. Held it toward me. “Take this one. It’ll fit your hand. I have a good feeling about it. That it might save your life.”

  I took it. Our hands brushed for an instant.

  “You’ve got it all wrong,” she said. “I kept you safe. And now it’s over. You don’t need me anymore.”

  “I’m not joking. It’s still dangerous out there. Fighting is only done for those that know it’s done. Let me get you home.”

  “I don’t know if I’m going home.”

  Sal poked his head into the room. About to say something. Saw us together. Paused. Then, “A minute to say your good-byes, Romeo.” He left.

  “Maybe we were only meant to know each other today,” she said. “Today was our day.”

  “That’s not how it works.”

  “It’s exactly how it works.”

  We stood there. Our minute passing. Looking at each other. Words failing.

  “I’ll find you,” I said.

  “I bet you will.”

  She reached up to my face. Still holding the pistol, I put my hands around her waist. We held each other. We kissed. One last look. One last kiss. That was it.