The Bad Shepherd

by Dale M. Nelson

  “When we first met, I was a lost soul. I spent the better part of ten years in Southeast Asia propping up teapot dictators, men that had done unspeakable things to their own people and who’s only redeeming quality was that they agreed to hate the communists as much as we did. CIA recruited me right out of the Special Forces in Laos and we did some horrible shit. At one point, I was actually ferrying heroin into Thailand for a local drug lord because we needed to use his territory to base operations out of and that was the only way he’d go along. At some point, I convinced myself that there weren’t really any ‘sides’ anymore. There was just power and victory. So, one day, I just walked off the reservation. I figured the shit we were moving over there was going to wind up here anyway, I might as well make enough money off it that I could disappear for good. So I moved some, I dealt.” Deacon dropped his head. “Those were some dark days. Maybe its even worse now because I know how far gone I was. I can’t ever undo any that but I can try to make it a little bit right by taking Marlon Rolles off the streets. He’s everything I saw our government being in Asia. He’s a powerbroker and an unchecked imperialist. He doesn’t care who or what he destroys as long as he wins. We need to do this, I need to do this.”

  Bo stared at Deacon and again wondered about the nature of their relationship, how Deacon would risk his life and a half million dollars to help Bo see this thing through. Bo understood settling debts, but Deacon was risking so much to be here. Even if they were successful, Rolles wouldn’t be brought down overnight. Both of them would be living under that shadow for some time to come.

  Deacon was willing to do all this for Bo, but he wouldn’t tell him his real name. If he did, the government could find him and there would be things to answer for. Using an alias kept Bo from having to make hard choices about where his loyalties lie.

  There was something else in Deacon’s tone, though. Something in his inflection when he said “I need to do this.” It was the first time that Bo considered the possibility that maybe he and Deacon didn’t define “justice” the same way.

  Though Deacon had just explained some of the price he’d paid and why this was redemptive for him, Fochs knew that he had accepted that as the whole truth. Perhaps there was another cost Deacon paid. The foreshocks of nervousness, possibly even fear, began to edge in on his consciousness; something that was just out of his peripheral but still knew was there. Bo realized how little he knew about his new partner, how little he truly understood.

  In considering the implications of Deacon’s statement, Bo forced himself to think about how far would he go. Would he be willing to let this end badly and if it did, did that still serve the greater good? Bo thought it would, do what needs to be done.

  That was Mitchell’s dictum. The magnetic line that drove his moral compass. He and Mitchell were not so different after all, Bo reckoned. Mitchell just interpreted the results differently.

  This, Bo knew, was not the victory he wanted. This was not how he intended the journey to end.

  At a stop sign, Bo chanced a look at Deacon Blues and wondered again the price he paid.

  Deacon, quiet and contemplative, looked straight ahead. They were in a residential neighborhood that butted up against the city of Inglewood’s small industrial district. Sensing something, Deacon looked over.

  “Ready?” Bo asked.

  Deacon only nodded in response.

  Bo stuck his fist out, and Deacon returned the solid. He put the Mustang into gear and rumbled down Hyde Park to the open gate. There was a chain-link fence about ten feet high running the length of the Hyde Park side of the property. Beyond that were three large red loading doors, presumably for trucks to back into, faded and cracked from baking in the sun. The corrugated steel awning above them did very little to protect them from the elements. The whole building seemed warped and uneven. The pavement was similarly cracked with potholes. Bo failed to dodge one of them and bounced the car, cringing as he thought of his tortured suspension.

  The air here was hot, stale and angry.

  The center door was open and with their windows down they could already smell the sweet reek of garbage. Bo pulled up just before the door but didn’t enter. Deacon looked over at him.

  “What are you doing? Rolles told me to drive all the way in. They probably don’t want to advertise that anyone is here.”

  “I don’t want them to be able to close the door and seal us in. I don’t like this, now that I’m looking at it,” Bo said.

  “Yeah, my Spider Sense is tingling, too. Good call.”

  Bo reached down and popped the trunk. He exited the car and walked around to the back to get the money. The bills were stacked in plastic bags and stuffed inside a large canvas duffel bag. Bo’s Colt M1911 was also in the trunk, which he slid into the front of his jeans and covered with his gray t-shirt. Bo pulled the trunk door closed and joined Deacon, who was standing just outside the center garage door.

  Deacon held up both of his hands in a non-threatening gesture and stepped forward into the garage. Bo took a quick look around to check their surroundings before they entered. The gate was manually operated, so they didn’t have to worry about it closing behind them. There was a green dumpster to the left next to a loading dock and another three pushed up against the concrete wall at the edge of the property, about seventy feet away.

  They’d agreed previously that Deacon would have to wear the recording device. He’d be closer to Rolles and would have the best chance of picking up the conversation. They’d also rehearsed the possible scenarios they’d use to back out of the deal after they had Rolles on tape selling them the coke.

  Bo counted six people waiting for them.

  Marlon Rolles, Jamaal Shabazz, and two others stood at the back of the garage, about thirty feet away. Two more were on either side of the door, flanking him and Deacon. Rolles was in a summer weight tan suit that showed off his bulk. Shabazz wore a loose fitting, cream-colored camp shirt and taupe trousers. The others, presumably the heavies, were more athletically dressed in tank tops or t-shirts and track pants. The air in the garage was ripe with the sickly, sweet stink of garbage, so much more potent than it was outside.

  Bo leveled a hard gaze on Rolles, taking him in person for the first time after so many long years. Questions about “right” or “wrong” evaporated and left no residue. The look on the other man’s face gave him all the answer he needed. Rolles was flat, emotionless and cold. Businesslike.

  That’s what lives were to him.

  “Marlon Rolles,” Deacon said, for the benefit of the tape.

  “The fuck is this?” Rolles said. “I thought we told you to come alone.”

  “Oh and I suppose six on one is ‘alone’ for you? I brought backup,” Deacon waved his hand slowly across the space in front of him. “Just like you did. We’re also armed so I can save you the trouble of a frisk. And we’re going to stay that way. Whether those guns come out is up to you.”

  “Fair enough,” Rolles rumbled.

  “One last thing. My people know where I’m at, and they’ll expect to hear from me.”

  Shabazz let out a “heh,” and his shoulders jerked in a laugh.

  “Well then, let’s not keep your people waiting.” Rolles lifted his chin at the man standing nearest Deacon.

  Bo looked to the goon as he walked over to Blues, then to the man to his own right, just to make sure he was staying put.

  “Hold on,” Deacon said, hand up. “Before he takes another step, I want to see product.”

  Rolles tapped Shabazz’ arm lightly with the back of his hand without taking his eyes off Deacon. Shabazz pulled his right leg behind him and used it to push a black nylon gym bag forward. He knelt down, eyes forward, and picked the bag up. Shabazz walked up about fifteen feet and stopped, motioning Deacon to step forward.

  Deacon walked the rest of the way and dropped his own bag next to black one. He opened the gym back and counted seven large bindles. “How much is this?”

  “Seven,” Sh
abazz said.

  “Am I talking to you?” Deacon looked past Shabazz.

  Shabazz’ eyes blazed, but he said nothing.

  “Rolles, how much is this?”

  “Seven keys. Street price is seventy-five a gram; I’m rounding it up to an even seven because you’re buying in bulk, and you’re not asking me to front. The price is the price. You checked me out, you know I don’t go in for haggle.”

  Bo smiled, that’s all they needed for the tape.

  “How’s the count, Jamaal?”

  Shabazz opened Deacon’s bag and gave it a glance. He lifted up one of the bags of money to see there was another beneath it, but is examination was cursory at best. Who the hell took a half-million on faith, especially low-denomination mixed bills? They should have a counting machine at least, not to mention scales for Deacon to verify the weight of the coke. Rolles might do business this way with people he knew, but he wouldn’t with total strangers. Something was up.

  Bo slowly moved his right hand to his waist and looped his thumb over the top of his jeans. It was about a half an inch from his Colt.

  “You mind if I try a sample?

  Bo’s heart raced. Deacon must not have caught on.

  “Purest shit you gonna find, but be my guest.” Rolles smiled coldly. “Would one of you be kind enough to open it up for our friend here?”

  “I’ll open him up,” Shabazz said, and Bo knew that was the signal.

  Shabazz reached around to his back and lifted something out of his waistband. Bo, to his left, saw the pistol first.

  “Gun!” he shouted and ripped his Colt out, beating Shabazz on the draw. Three shots were in the air before any of Rolles’ men could react. All three hit Shabazz in a tight group, center chest. Shabazz folded in on himself and fell to the floor, dead instantly. Bo pivoted to the right as soon as the third shot was out of the chamber and popped one off at the guard to his side, striking him in the upper left shoulder.

  Deacon had dropped to the grimy concrete floor on Bo’s signal, drawing his own gun, also a Colt 1911. He reached the ground a half-second before Shabazz. Deacon fired twice, one on the wing, missing the guard that was behind him and to his left. The second struck home, hitting the thug in the chest and knocking him over backwards. It wasn’t a lethal shot, not yet, but the man’s gun went flying.

  The staccato rip of a MAC-10 machine pistol tore through the garage, causing an explosion of echoes in the enclosed space. The shots all went wide, and Bo couldn’t tell whether they were shooting at him or Deacon. It never failed. Gangbangers—and that’s all these thugs were no matter how Rolles dressed them up—always confused rate of fire with skill. They wanted flashy, loud, high-output weapons like MAC-10s and TEC-9s, even though those weapons were bad shots even in the hands of skilled marksmen. Rolles’ men couldn’t hold up against two expert shots, each with government training and Bo with police training on top of that.

  Three of them were already dropped, but Bo knew he and Deacon wouldn’t last long if they didn’t get to cover fast. He fired four more rounds to the back of the garage as cover. “Get the fuck out of here!” he shouted to Deacon, who grabbed his money and bolted for the door.

  Deacon ducked behind the garage door and fired several times to provide cover for Bo.

  Bo looked at the bag next to Shabazz’ body. There were seven kilos in that bag, half a million dollars on the street. He could give it to Deacon or just throw it in the LA River. Either way, Rolles wouldn’t have it. It was just three steps away.

  “Bo! Come on!”

  Rolles needed to feel some pain for a change. Bo grabbed the bag. It was small consolation for what he’d lost, little more than a knife twist in Rolles’ side, but today it would have to be enough.

  Bo sprinted for the door while Deacon covered him. Without breaking stride, he put a foot on the Mustang’s front bumper and vaulted himself over the hood, spun, and climbed into the car. He’d left the keys in the ignition in case they’d needed a fast break and was already backing up when Deacon climbed in next to him. Muzzle flashes lit the dark hole in front of them, punctuated by the metallic clang of bullets striking the garage doors. Bo floored it in reverse, exploding out onto Hyde Park. He wheeled around and gunned it, lifting the front end of the car. Deacon fired twice at the goons running out of the garage.

  “Two more to the left!” Bo called. A pair of men with automatics emerged from behind the shop across the street from the garage. This had definitely been an ambush. Bo saw them climb into a two-door, black-and-gold Grand Torino as he throttled around the corner onto Centinela. The car fishtailed, and he dropped it into third, fighting the wheel for control. The Mustang hit sixty halfway through the block. He saw another car appear next to the Grand Torino, keeping pace. He couldn’t make out the type from here, just that it was red.

  Bo raced two more blocks, told Deacon to hold on, dropping his right hand to the parking brake. He hit the brakes, slowing to just over forty and pulled up on the parking brake. The tires squealed in agony and sent a cloud of blue-white smoke into the air as he power-slid around the corner. Bo dropped the brake and hit the gas again, then pulled the car left on the second street.

  “What are you doing?”

  “We need to split up. Shots were fired, and the police are going to there soon. We can’t take the chance of getting caught with a bag full of money and seven keys.” Bo hit the brakes and downshifted, sliding to a stop in the middle of the street. The door was open before the car stopped. Bo put a hand on Deacon’s arm. “Listen, if something happens to me, you need to get that tape to Kaitlin Everett at KNBC. She’ll know what to do, whom to send it to.”

  “Kaitlin Everett,” he repeated, committing it to memory. Deacon looked behind them to make sure they hadn’t been found yet, then back to Bo. “Give me your gun. The police are already moving. If they get you it’ll be hard to explain that away.”

  Bo nodded in agreement, pulled his Colt out of his waistband, and handed it across. Deacon dropped it in the bag. Bo handed him the second bag. Deacon quickly consolidated loads and stuffed the empty bag into the other one.

  “What do you want me to do with this?”

  “Put it in the river. I don’t care, I just want it out of circulation.” Bo held a tight breath. The car was hot, filled with stale air. There didn’t seem to be a breeze for miles. “Make it go away. Please.”

  Deacon’s face was blank for a moment. “I’ll cut the bags and dump the product. Its as good as gone.” His mouth split in a wry smile. “We got to do this more often, cowboy.”

  “Get the fuck out of here,” Bo said, smiling now himself.

  “Via con Dios.” Deacon was out the door.

  Bo put the Mustang in gear and sped off, ready to put Carroll Shelby to the test. When he looked into his rearview mirror, Deacon was nowhere to be found.

  When Bo got to the end of the street, he didn’t know which one he was even on, he’d turned so fast. He saw the Torino at the end of the cross street, rolling slowly. They spotted him, backed up, and turned to pursue. Bo put the hammer down and accelerated straight to the end of the block, making a hard right back onto Centinela and earning him a chorus of horns and curses from a station wagon he’d cut off.

  It was nearly a minute before the Torino was back on him. The car sported a big block V8, but there was no way on earth it was catching a GT-500 Mustang going in a straight line. Bo just needed to keep increasing the gap until they gave up or he lost them. He blasted pedal down through Inglewood, weaving around the slower traffic around him.

  He was approaching the Sepulveda intersection and saw not only was the light red, but Centinela was backed up several cars deep. “Shit, shit, shit.” If he stopped with traffic, the Torino would be on him in a heartbeat. He’d be boxed in. Flipping onto a residential street was risky. This time of night there would be a lot of activity, maybe even kids playing in the street. They’d been lucky when he let Deacon out and didn’t want to press it. He slowed, thinking thro
ugh a string of bad options.

  Eyes to the rearview. Spot the Torino.

  Make the only real choice.

  Pedal down and dropped from fourth to second. Engine roared as the RPM jumped into the throat. Cranked the wheel left into the oncoming lane. Front end spiked with the torque, back to third in the span of three cars.

  Horns exploded around him.

  No oncoming traffic yet, throttle, step through the gears.

  Forty-five.

  Fifty by the time he made the light.

  Left turn light comes on, horns blare behind him.

  Bo hit the intersection, a limp “X” with Sepulveda lazily curving north. He cranked the wheel right and pulled back on the parking brake, aiming for Sepulveda northbound. Tires screeched in protest, the car slid into a power turn, and he already knew that he was going way too fast. The Mustang fishtailed brutally. Drivers freaked out around him. He slid into one of the turn lanes. Cars broke left and right. The street exploded into utter chaos. Bo checked left to make sure he was clear of the eastbound lane turning right. Bo dropped the parking brake to get the skid back under control; he was still going too fast, and the Mustang fought him. He felt the tires lose their grip on the street.

  The car skipped once and lost contact with the asphalt.

  The next thing Bo saw was street as the car rolled over, metal groaning painfully. The driver’s side window shattered. Sky—street—sky—street. He lost track of the rolls. The car hit right side up then smashed into something, which didn’t register with Bo, he was already in shock.