San Francisco Slaughter

by Jack Badelaire

  Lynch pointed at the gun. “You’re just full of surprises.”

  Richard smiled. “Walther PP, chambered in .380 ACP. For when discretion is a necessity.”

  “I think you enjoy accessorizing a little too much,” Lynch replied, before the two of them exited the car.

  Although there were streetlamps, it was easy enough for the two men to avoid illuminating themselves as they made their way back towards Roth’s house. None of the homes they passed showed signs of anyone still awake, and they cut across lawns and hid from the street using bushes and shrubs. Within minutes, they approached Roth’s house. Keeping low, the two men followed the outside of the high wooden privacy fence to the back of the property. Once there, they took turns keeping watch while first Lynch, then Richard, scaled the fence and dropped down onto Roth’s lawn.

  Sticking to the shadows, the two men belly-crawled across the lawn, first moving along the base of the fence, then cutting across the patio, using the poolside furniture to hide from the view of anyone looking out from the sliding glass patio doors or the windows along the back of the house. Finally, they chanced a quick, crouched run to the side of the building. Moving slowly, and tilting his head to maintain as little exposure as possible, Lynch looked inside the house.

  The first two windows showed an empty bedroom and a kitchen, both in a state of complete disarray. The bedroom was a shambles, with clothes scattered everywhere, dresser drawers pulled and emptied, even the mattress slashed and gutted like a fat white corpse. The kitchen was similarly trashed, with every cabinet and drawer open, the contents strewn about carelessly, as if a wild animal had run amok inside.

  Lynch leaned close to Richard. “Looks like someone tossed the joint,” he whispered.

  Peeking through the nearest sliding patio door, Lynch looked down a hallway. He caught the glimmer of a flashlight’s beam coming from the bathroom doorway, and a moment later, a man in a dark sports coat and slacks emerged from the bathroom and crossed the hallway into the den. Although Lynch only got a brief glimpse, the man was clearly not Roth.

  “The guy is still inside. We should grab him,” Lynch said.

  Richard nodded. “I’ll go around front and distract him. You sneak in and take care of it.”

  With that, Richard slipped around the side of the house, heading for the front lawn. Lynch pulled the keys from his pocket, finding one fitting the patio door. Crouching in the shadows, Lynch felt the adrenaline moving through his system, his senses hyper-alert for any movement or sound around him. It was a feeling he realized he’d been missing for over a year, that sense of anticipation, of action impending in the next few moments. For the first time since returning from the war, Lynch felt alive again, and a small smile formed on his lips at the thought that all was right with the world once more.

  As Lynch peered through the patio door a few more seconds passed, and then suddenly the flashlight’s beam emerged back into the hallway, only to snap off a moment later. Lynch saw the man walk towards the front of the house in a crouch, disappearing into the living room. Seeing his chance, Lynch moved to the patio door, slipped the key in the lock, and quietly opened the door, sliding it in its grooved track just far enough to slip inside before easing it nearly shut, leaving a hair’s-breadth of space so it didn’t latch again and lock out Richard.

  Moving quickly, Lynch slipped into the bathroom and tucked himself behind the door, peeking out between the door and the frame. Moments later, he heard the man’s footsteps as he returned from the living room, muttering to himself about stray cats. As the man turned left to go back into the den, Lynch moved out of the bathroom behind him. Lynch slipped an arm around the man’s throat and put him in a choke hold, the pressure from his arm shutting down the flow of blood to the man’s brain. There was a brief struggle as the man dropped the flashlight and clawed at Lynch’s arms in an attempt to break free. Within a few seconds, the man’s movements began to slow, and soon Lynch was lowering the unconscious man to the ground face-first. He grabbed the collar of the man’s sports coat and tugged it down, trapping his arms by his sides, and after unplugging a lamp’s electrical cord, he cut it free and used the cord to bind the man’s feet before he rolled the man onto his back, then dragged him into a sitting position against the wall.

  The sliding door whispered as it opened and shut. Lynch leaned out into the hallway, hand near the gun in his waistband, but it was Richard.

  “He went down like a baby in need of a nap,” Lynch said.

  “Not bad, soldier boy,” Richard replied.

  They both stepped into the den, and as the man began to moan and stir. Lynch knelt down and went through his pockets. The man didn’t have a wallet, but he did have some cash and a few coins, as well as a phone number written on a scrap of paper, a flat leather slapjack, and a large snub-nosed revolver. Lynch held the revolver near the beam of the flashlight lying on the floor. It was a Smith & Wesson Model 19, a mean-looking .357 Magnum with a two-and-a-half inch barrel. He snapped open the cylinder and picked out one of the long Magnum rounds; it was a lead-tipped hollowpoint bullet.

  Richard gave a low whistle. “That’ll blow a nasty hole in someone.”

  Lynch dropped the contents of the man’s pockets into his own, as the man finally lifted his head and groggily looked around. After a moment, his eyes focused on the two men standing over him, and his brow furrowed.

  “Who the fuck are you guys? You two made a big fucking mistake.”

  Richard chuckled and placed his heel against the man’s ankle. Leaning forward, he ground the joint into the floor, eliciting a cry of pain from their captive.

  “Listen, dummy,” Richard replied. “You’re not in a position to discuss mistakes right now. What’s your name?”

  “Go fuck yourself,” the man said through teeth clenched with pain.

  Richard took his foot off the man’s ankle just long enough to wind back his leg and kick the man in the gut. Their captive bent almost double, coughing up a thin line of vomit that drooled down his chin.

  “Let’s try that again,” Richard said.

  The man drew in a few steadying breaths, before leaning his head back against the wall. He looked into the impassive faces of his two captors, and knew it was best to give up the goods.

  “Reynolds,” he whispered. “The name’s Reynolds.”

  “That wasn’t so hard, was it, Reynolds?” Lynch asked.

  Reynolds shook his head. “Doesn’t matter nohow. You guys are fuckin’ dead men.”

  “How’s that?” Richard asked.

  Reynolds’ eyes narrowed. “You don’t know who I work for, do you?”

  “Guess you’re the guy with all the answers, shithead. Give ‘em up,” Lynch replied.

  “I work for Cranston, you idiot. Cranston! When he finds out about this, you two are dead!” Reynolds shouted.

  Richard and Lynch looked at each other with blank stares. Reynolds glanced from one to the other, then began to laugh.

  “This is fucking priceless! You’re either the dumbest fucks working in San Fran, or some sorry-assed outside talent! Philip Cranston is the heaviest hitter in the city! He’s a stone-cold fucking killer! And you just pissed in his soup!” Reynolds continued to laugh, tears streaming down his cheeks.

  “We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it,” Richard replied. “Right now, we want to know what you were doing here. Did Cranston send you to look for something?”

  Reynolds shook his head. “I’m not telling you guys shit. Cranston would skin me alive.”

  Lynch pulled the slapjack from his pocket. Reynolds eyed the weapon, but said nothing. Bouncing the weighted end in his palm a few times, Lynch whipped the slapjack up into the air, then brought it down on Reynolds’ shin. There was an audible crack of breaking bone, and Reynolds screamed, his eyes bugging out from their sockets. Lynch waited until Reynolds finished wailing and caught his breath, then raised the slapjack in the air a second time.

  “Okay! Okay! Fuck, just wait, and I’l
l tell you!” Reynolds pleaded, sweat and tears running down his face.

  “No more macho bullshit, or I just keep breaking things. I can do this all night,” Lynch warned.

  Reynolds shook his head. “We tossed the place three nights ago, looking for something. Some little gizmo, I dunno. Cranston said we’d know it when we saw it. Ever since we’ve been taking turns waiting for the guy, Roth, to come home. If he did, we’d drag his ass back to Cranston.”

  “You’re working with a partner?” Richard asked.

  “Yeah, he’s got the car. We switch off nights,” Reynolds answered.

  Lynch dug around in his pocket and produced the scrap of paper with the phone number. “Is this how you get in touch with him?”

  “Yeah, it’s a motel a few miles from here.”

  “The Motel 6?” Richard asked.

  Reynolds nodded. “Yeah, that’s the one.”

  Richard looked at Lynch. “See? What’d I tell you. Only scumbags stay in those places.”

  Lynch ignored the barb and waved the paper in front of Reynolds’ face. “You’re going to call your partner and get him over here. Tell him you caught Roth, and you’re ready to get picked up.”

  Reynolds hesitated for a moment, but Lynch only needed to raise the slapjack a couple of inches before the man swallowed and nodded. Richard picked up the phone from a nearby table and handed it to Lynch. Richard then drew his Walther and levelled it at Reynolds’ face.

  “You do this nice and easy, amigo. One word I don’t like, and this little gun coughs a lead pill through your face. Got it?”

  Reynolds gave a small nod. Lynch dialed the number and held the receiver up to Reynolds’ ear, while leaning in close to overhear. The phone rang three times before someone picked up.

  “Yeah?”

  “Hey, Tully, I got ‘em.”

  “That dumb fuck finally showed up?”

  “Yeah, a few minutes ago. I got ‘em all tied up and ready to go.”

  “You don’t sound so good. You okay?”

  Reynolds swallowed and looked up at the muzzle of Richard’s suppressed Walther. “The little shit was tougher than he looked. Put up a fight and knocked the wind outta me before I sapped him in the head. He’s out cold now.”

  “Better hope you didn’t scramble his brains before Cranston gets a chance to talk to him.”

  “Nah, I just clipped him. He’s fine.”

  “Okay, lemme get dressed, and I’ll be there in about...ten minutes. I’ll back in, we toss him in the trunk.”

  “Sounds good, see you then.”

  The line went dead. Lynch hung up the phone and stood up. He walked into the kitchen and rummaged around in the mess, finding a suitably-sized dish towel. Back in the den, he twisted it up and gagged Reynolds with it, tying it behind his head.

  “In case you get any bright ideas,” he said.

  Reynolds nodded. Lynch stood and hefted the slapjack. “I’ll deal with the driver. You keep an eye on this shithead.”

  Richard nodded. Lynch moved to the front door and unlocked it, then opened it a crack. He tucked himself against the nearby wall and waited, peering outside through a small gap in the curtains. A few minutes later, a large Buick sedan slowed in front of the house and backed up into the driveway. Tully, a tall, thin man in a tan overcoat, got out and popped the trunk, then walked up to the door. Seeing it was open a crack, Tully pushed it open and took a tentative step inside.

  “Hey, where the fuck are you?” he whispered.

  “Right here,” Lynch said, and grabbed Tully by the lapel. He pulled him forward and off balance, then swung the slapjack in a tight arc, clubbing Tully behind the left ear and dropping him like a sack of rocks.

  “All clear,” Lynch whispered down the hall. Richard emerged with the Walther at the ready.

  “You didn’t kill him, did you?” Richard asked.

  Lynch reached down and felt for a pulse. It was there, strong, and steady. “Nah, he’s alive.”

  Richard holstered his Walther and went back into the den. He emerged a moment later, dragging Reynolds by his lapel. The thug whimpered with pain as his broken leg moved around. Richard unceremoniously dumped him by the door. Lynch pulled another electrical cord and cut it to tie Tully’s hands behind his back, and he searched the man’s unconscious body. Tully had a switchblade, a roll of cash, and a snub-nosed revolver, smaller than Reynolds’. Lynch didn’t bother to examine it, and instead stuffed the items into his pockets along with everything else. His denim jacket began to feel like he had lead shot poured into his pockets.

  Working quickly, the two men loaded Tully and Reynolds into the trunk of Tully’s Buick. Lynch turned to Richard.

  “Now what?”

  Richard shut the trunk. “I’ll drive the Buick. Hop in and we’ll swing by the Ford, you take that. We’ll find a pay phone and call Blake. We need somewhere secure and out of the way so we can ask these knuckleheads a few questions.”

  EIGHT

  Blake wasn’t too happy with the idea of finding a place where Richard and Lynch could interrogate a couple of criminals.

  “Are you guys fucking kidding me?” he said to Lynch over the phone.

  “We couldn’t do it at Roth’s place, and the Motel 6 would be even worse. We need somewhere out of the way.”

  “Jesus, when we said whatever it takes...okay, all right. I think I know a place. We’ve got a small warehouse near the airport. Take 101 north to Airport Boulevard, and I’ll meet you at the turnoff. I drive a light grey Lincoln.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Lynch spotted the Lincoln along the side of the road. He toggled his headlights, and the Lincoln pulled onto the road and began heading east. Blake took them a mile or so along the road, before pulling off into a large parking lot and killing his headlights. Lynch saw a large hotel off in the distance, and there were a couple of other buildings, but the place looked largely deserted. He turned off his own headlights, and saw Richard do the same in the rearview mirror. The three cars parked behind a nondescript warehouse on the far side of the parking lot. The sign on the building simply said “SEC”, with a phone number in small digits below.

  Blake unlocked and raised the large metal door, and Richard backed the Buick into the warehouse. After the door was lowered again, Richard popped the trunk while Lynch stood guard. By now, Tully had regained consciousness, and he stared daggers at the two men.

  “You two fucks have no idea what you’re into,” he growled.

  Richard chuckled. “Yeah, your friend said the same thing. Guess we got wax in our ears.”

  Blake found a couple of chairs and some packing tape, and soon both Reynolds and Tully were seated and secured, Reynolds’ pale, sweaty face showing the pain of his broken leg.

  “So...here we are,” Richard said to their two captives. “Time to start singing, canaries.”

  “Eat shit,” Tully muttered.

  Lynch stepped forward, pulling the slapjack from his pocket. He wound it back and slammed it into Tully’s gut, eliciting a groan of pain.

  Richard began to pace back and forth in front of the two bound men. “You might have guessed, my young friend don’t control his temper too well. Saw some heavy stuff back in the war. Maybe he ain’t right in the head, or just likes beating on folks with his new toy. Either way, he’s gonna take you two chumps apart with that sap until you start answering some questions.”

  Reynolds glanced sideways at Tully. “I already told you we’re working for Cranston. What else you wanna know?”

  Tully’s head snapped around and he glared at his partner. “You fuckin’ asshole, why’d you say anything?”

  “Because they broke my goddamn leg, that’s why!” he snapped back.

  Blake stepped forward. “Did you say you work for a Cranston? Is that Philip Cranston?”

  Reynolds nodded. Lynch looked at Blake. “You know who that is?”

  Blake’s lips drew together in a thin line. “Yeah, I know him. Back when I was on the force, around ‘60, C
ranston became a detective, worked narcotics. He was a real mean one, good at breaking cases but also liked to break heads, and he was real quick to draw his piece and start shooting. Pretty soon he was getting pulled from cases because the bad guys had a bad habit of getting shot during busts or resisting arrest.”

  “So he’s a dirty cop? These clowns said he’s an enforcer,” Richard said.

  “Got kicked off the force in ‘65,” Blake said. “There were rumors he was taking cuts, hustling the pushers, and silencing anyone who might get busted with information that could blow back on him. Too smart to get burned with something solid, but it got bad enough that the chief asked for his badge and gun. Cranston saw the writing was on the wall and cut his losses. He disappeared for a couple of years, but we started hearing things.”

  “What things?” Lynch asked.

  “That he went rotten all the way. Became a hired gun, sold himself out at top dollar, smart enough to do the deed and not get caught at it. SFPD went after him a couple of times, but never had enough to make it stick.”

  “So, this guy is pretty good?” Richard asked, eyebrow raised.

  Blake nodded, his face grim. “I saw him kill two men while I was on the force. He’s fast - rattlesnake fast - and shoots straight. Wouldn’t know it to look at him, might think he’s an accountant, not a killer, but he shot a dozen men while wearing a badge, and I’m sure he’s done more than that since.”

  “What kind of shooting iron does he carry?” Richard asked.

  “I don’t know about now, but back then he used a plain old .38 Special,” Blake replied. “Smith and Wesson Model 10, as simple as it gets. But he’s a deadeye shot with it. He used to cut a notch in his gun butt with every kill, like he was some kind of cowboy. Gave me the creeps every time I saw it.”

  “See?” Tully said, a sullen tone to his voice. “Big guy there has all the answers.”