Just as he turned around, Blake was on his feet again, and starting to run down the concourse once more in Cranston’s direction. Figuring enough was enough, Lynch body-checked the bigger man into the wall in order to slow him down.
Blake bounced off the concrete wall and came back with the muzzle of his .41 Magnum in Lynch’s face.
“Never do that again!” he snarled.
“If we don’t get out of here now, we’re all going to jail for the rest of our lives!” Lynch shouted back.
Blake gritted his teeth and cursed. He looked up and down the concourse.
“Okay, goddamn it, this way. We’ll double back, head for the way you came in.”
Lynch raised the radio to his lips. “Cowboy, we’re falling back to my jumping-off point. How copy, over?”
The sound of gunfire came through Lynch’s earpiece. “I’m way ahead of you. Got halfway down the concourse on this side before they put up a wall of lead with that chatterbox and a pump-gun, but now the cops are here. None of that gunfire is headed my way, over.”
Lynch looked at Blake. “The cops are here already, Cranston’s guys are shooting it out with them. Now’s our chance.”
Blake shot one last, frustrated look up the tunnel before turning and following Lynch back the way they’d came. Behind them the sounds of gunfire rose and fell, like waves pounding on a distant surf. Lynch nearly ran past the door leading to the maintenance room he’d entered from, but he remembered in time, and the two men ducked inside. Lynch unloaded the submachine gun, folded up the stock, and threw it in the duffel bag.
“Okay, right now we just focus on getting the hell out in one piece,” he said to Blake.
“Right behind you,” the older man replied, stuffing his revolver back in the duffel.
Lynch eased open the door and looked around. He didn’t see anyone, but off in the distance, he saw the flashing lights of police cars speeding down the road cutting through the park to the north of the stadium.
“They’re closing in fast. Come on, let’s go.”
The two men sprinted across the open ground, and Lynch braced himself at the base of the fence, grunting in pain as Blake used him as a stepping-stool to climb up faster. Lynch heard him still breathing hard, almost gasping for breath, and realized this was maybe a bit too much for a man of Blake’s size and age.
Finally Blake got over the top of the fence, and fell more than jumped to the ground. Lynch scrambled up the fence like a monkey and dropped down, following Blake into the tree line. Stealth was sacrificed for speed as they moved fast and sprinted through the woods, stumbling on tree roots and fallen branches.
“They’re going to close up the park any second,” Blake gasped, his lungs sounding ragged as he gulped air. The bigger man was falling behind. Even in the wan moonlight and the dim light of distant floodlights here and there along the part walkways, Lynch saw Blake’s face was beet-red and covered in sweat.
“Jesus Christ, you’re going to give yourself a heart attack!” Lynch said. “You’re too big for me to carry out of here. Slow down a little!”
They neared a park exit, but Lynch saw police cars down the block and getting closer. He knew there was no way they’d be able to get out of the park and disappear into the surrounding neighborhood before being stopped. Worried, he glanced around, and spotted several men hurrying along towards the park exit. One of them was buttoning up his shirt, while another was slipping his blazer back on. Lynch had an epiphany.
“Follow my lead, and don’t ask,” he said.
Lynch reached out and grabbed Blake’s hand, pulling him towards the other men. Blake opened his mouth to protest, but before he could say anything, Lynch cut him off. “C’mon Barry! If the police stop us, your wife might find out!”
The men turned and looked as Lynch and Blake emerged from the underbrush. One glance at Blake’s red face, their pant legs covered in grass and leaves, the two men holding hands, and the men nodded to the newcomers in greeting.
“Hurry up!” one of them said. “There’s something just awful going on by the stadium!”
Lynch and Blake caught up with the group of men. Lynch put his hand out and gave a reassuring pat on one man’s shoulder. “Well, so much for a quiet evening in the woods! Who knows what’s happening over there? It’s horrible!”
The men moved together quickly as a group towards the exit. Blake didn’t say much of anything, but he didn’t let go of Lynch’s hand until they made it safely past the black-and-white police car parked by the gate. The two patrolmen standing there snickered to themselves as they watched the men exit, and Blake kept his face averted from them, in case there was a chance one of them might recognize him from his days on the force.
Lynch and Blake crossed the street and kept moving at a brisk pace, no longer holding hands, now just two citizens moving away from an area swarming with police. They heard sirens converging on the park from every corner of the city. Up and down the street, lights were coming on behind curtained windows, and curious heads were looking out towards the park. Someone looked down and saw them walking along.
“What the fuck is going on?” an old man said.
“There’s some kind of gang war happening at the park!” Lynch replied.
“Those assholes! I was trying to sleep!” The old man slammed his window closed.
Reaching a convenient alleyway, the two men ducked in, and Lynch pulled out his walkie-talkie.
“Hangman to Cowboy, are you in the clear, over?”
There was static for a few seconds.
“Cowboy is clear. Proceeding to rendezvous point, out.”
“Hangman and Gunny are following, out.”
Lynch leaned back against the rough brick of the building behind him, and let out a sigh. They’d made it.
NINETEEN
If the headlines the next morning were any indication, the gunfight in Kezar Stadium had been an act of criminal violence roughly equivalent in scope to the Tet Offensive.
After escaping from the park, Lynch and Blake had met up with Richard. Blake told the two men to go back to their hotel and lay low for the next couple of days, because once the cops learned of Roth’s identity, SEC would be under too much scrutiny for them to visit. Lynch and Richard took three different cab rides to eventually get to the hotel at three in the morning, at which point they collapsed within minutes of their arrival. Now, Lynch read the paper while he and Richard ate breakfast in the hotel’s restaurant, enjoying some downtime after the madness of the last two days.
Lynch showed Richard the front page of the paper, which declared “STADIUM MASSACRE LATEST IN NEW CRIME WAVE!” in bolded letters three inches high.
“I think their claims of a massacre are somewhat exaggerated,” Richard said, reading over the headline.
“Let’s see here,” Lynch said, reading the paper. “Four dead, including Roth and a police officer. Two other officers wounded, one in critical condition. Says police fired on a black Cadillac sedan trying to flee the scene, but the vehicle appeared to be armored and their shots had no effect. The police aren’t saying whether or not the shootout is related to the roadhouse incident, but the media are already certain of the connection.”
“How insightful of them,” Richard drawled, taking a sip from his coffee.
Lynch shook out the front page and continued reading. “Apparently we are ‘...the grim vanguard of a new breed of criminal, one armed to the teeth and schooled in paramilitary tactics, born from the horrors of an illegal war and desensitized to violence by the blood-splattered films and television programs of today’s nihilistic cultural mores.’ That’s pretty deep.”
Richard lifted an eyebrow. “I didn’t think The Waltons was all that nihilistic.”
“I’ve heard The Partridge Family can get pretty dark sometimes,” Lynch replied. “Never watched an episode myself, though.”
“Any mention of Roth?” Richard asked.
“They say an apparent hostage or captive was killed, and
the current theory is that he was an unfortunate citizen kidnapped and used as some kind of courier or proxy in a meeting between criminal elements that went sour and turned into a gun battle. I suppose, actually, that’s a somewhat accurate description of what happened.”
“But they don’t have his identity yet?”
“Well, it’s not in the papers,” Lynch replied. “Assuming Roth didn’t have his driver’s license or any other identification on him, unless he’s been fingerprinted, it’ll take them awhile, but I’m sure they’ll get a sketch of him on the news today, and one of the SEC employees is bound to recognize him and phone it in. Then the cops and reporters will be all over Steiger like flies on a dead dog.”
“A morbid comparison, but apt nonetheless,” Richard said. “You remember Steiger telling us what a public relations nightmare it’d be if word got out one of his employees with Top Secret clearance had a gambling problem? Now that employee is massacred in the middle of a football stadium.”
“I thought you felt ‘massacre’ was a little overblown?” Lynch joked.
“Steiger might be some kind of engineering genius, but he tried to be too clever by half, and this is the result. I don’t know about you, but I don’t see any use for my services anymore.”
Lynch chewed on a strip of bacon for a moment. “I don’t know. I’m willing to play this string out a little further. Not sure about you, but I don’t have anything better to do with my time, and there’s still Cranston to consider.”
“Consider how?” Richard asked.
“Frankly, I think he’s an asshole, and he deserves a bullet in the head,” Lynch replied. “He shot Roth in cold blood. If one of us had been nailed last night, well, that’s the game. Not saying I wouldn’t stick with this to pay Cranston back if he’d iced you or Blake, but shooting an unarmed civilian, that’s bad medicine.”
Richard let out a derisive snort. “Please. If you feel so bad, leave some nice flowers on his grave. Heck, I’m good for a sawbuck. But don’t go petitioning for his sainthood just yet. He swam in some dirty waters before this even began, and he took Steiger’s offer even when he knew things could get dangerous. He played with matches after showering with kerosene, and not surprisingly, he got burned.”
“So that’s that? You’re packing up and going home?” Lynch asked.
“I’ll stick around until tomorrow morning,” Richard replied. “If there ain’t more money to be made by then, I’m on the road. The risk needs to have a suitable reward.”
Lynch thought Richard’s outlook was perhaps a bit too heartless, but on the other hand, the gunslinger had a point. They were operating far beyond any notions of legality, and if the police ever caught up with them, they’d go to jail for a long, long time. And, although his instincts told him he could trust Blake, Lynch wasn’t entirely certain he could trust Steiger to remain quiet about Richard and himself if the heat became a little too much. Men like Steiger paid other men to do their dirty work for them, and in the same vein, sold out those men in order to avoid the consequences of their actions. Lynch didn’t think he needed to worry about that - yet - but it was always a possibility.
Richard finished his breakfast and stood up from the table. “Think I’m going to take the Mustang out today, stretch her legs a little.”
“You going to zoom around town like Steve McQueen?” Lynch asked with a smile.
“Naw, that’s no way to treat my lady,” Richard replied. “Probably drive north, cross the bridge, motor around and enjoy the sights. Some nice park land up there.”
“So, your car’s a woman?”
“You’ve seen my GT. Something that gorgeous has to be female.”
“She got a name?”
Richard smiled. “I call her Grace.”
“Grace?” Lynch chuckled. “Sounds like a grandmother’s name.”
“Mighty inconsiderate of you, Lynch,” Richard said, his eyes narrowing. “See if I let you ride in her after a comment like that.”
“Now that she’s got a name, there’s something vaguely inappropriate about that comment,” Lynch replied.
“Just for that, I’m letting you buy my meal.” Richard pushed in his chair and went up to his room, leaving Lynch to finish his breakfast and settle the bill.
With no other engagements for the day, Lynch decided to play sightseer. He dressed in jeans and a light blazer, and after some internal debate, left both his handguns hidden in the hotel room, bringing only the switchblade and slapjack he’d confiscated from Reynolds and Tully. The knife went into his blazer pocket, the slapjack into the back pocket of his jeans. There was the possibility Cranston had men out looking for them, but it was unlikely, and a far greater danger would be carrying a concealed handgun and being made by a cop who wanted to see a non-existent carry permit.
It was a beautiful summer day, cool and sunny with only a few small clouds in the sky. Lynch decided to return to the scene of the crime, so to speak, and he visited the Golden Gate Park again, although today he stuck to the western end, well away from Kezar Stadium. The bright sun warmed him within his blazer and within minutes he was walking with the jacket hanging over his shoulder. It was a great morning for watching San Franciscans enjoying themselves, and Lynch supposed even the crime scene at the other end of the park wouldn’t keep everyone away. Dog owners walked their pets, while others watched their dogs run and play and frolic in the wide open spaces, some chasing thrown sticks or tennis balls.
Lynch was less interested in watching dogs and more interested in watching the women. A long-legged blonde wearing a pair of tiny shorts and a tight T-shirt zipped past him on a pair of roller-skates, and she turned to give him a smile and a wave, her long hair whipping in the breeze. Lynch smiled and waved back, admiring the blonde’s shapely legs and backside. She pushed off on her skates and soon disappeared around a bend in the path. Moments later, the blonde was replaced by a trio of young co-eds, all jogging together, talking and laughing about something that happened in one of their lectures. Lynch noticed one of them give him an appraising look, and he offered a friendly wave in return.
The sight of all the beautiful women reminded Lynch he hadn’t talked to Stacy since the night he arrived in the city. He’d called her from the motel and told her he was away on business for a friend, and he didn’t know how long he’d be gone. She took his absence in stride, and told him to give her a call once he got back in town. Even though it’d only been a few days, Lynch still found himself missing her company, and, he admitted to himself, he missed getting laid. The roller-coaster of action and exhaustion was leaving him pent up and in need of a release, the kind best achieved with some female companionship.
Lynch finally made his way out of the park and walked around the city, not really caring where he went, just following a whim and letting his mind wander. He hiked up and down steep city streets, enjoying the view whenever he had a clear line of sight out over the ocean. Compared to San Diego, San Francisco was a much different city, and while he still preferred his current home, he could see how this city might appeal to someone from, say, Boston or New York, who wanted to make a move out to the West Coast, while still living someplace with a familiar feel to it: the more traditional city environment, the old brick buildings, the large urban park.
Lynch ate lunch at a small beachfront food stand, enjoying a hot dog with mustard while sitting on a bench and watching ships moving up and down the coast, in and out of the Bay. On a whim, he decided to take the ferry out to Alcatraz. The infamous prison island had been abandoned for some time, and although it was occupied for a while by a group of American Indian protesters, the government had recently made the island a recreation area. Lynch was one of several dozen people who took the boat ride out to the island. There, he wandered aimlessly, avoiding the couples and a gaggle of school children on a field trip, and eventually found himself sitting on a large rock, watching the gulls wheeling and diving down by the edge of the water.
Had he made the right decision, co
ming here and working for Steiger? If it hadn’t been him, Carson would have offered up someone else - he wasn’t anything special. He’d seen a great deal of death and caused a great deal more during the war, and he realized the killing he’d done over the last few days didn’t bother him at all. Cranston’s goons were all scumbags, human trash best crumpled up and thrown away. He had more respect for the NVA and the Viet Cong than he had for the likes of Reynolds and Tully.
As much as he was reluctant to admit it, Lynch was actually enjoying himself. Richard was something of an odd character, but after they’d had their one-on-one talk yesterday in Steiger’s office, he found himself trusting the Texan, admiring the man’s straightforward view on life. Men such as them were never meant for offices and station wagons. They were men born out of their time, better suited to the life of a Caribbean pirate, a Viking raider, or a lone cowboy wandering the Wild West.
On the ferry ride back to the mainland, Lynch found himself standing next to a full-figured brunette wearing a long, flower-print dress and a denim jacket. Her name was Mary, and she was visiting the city from Baltimore, where she went to college. Lynch offered to buy her an early dinner, and over burgers and beer, they talked about San Francisco and what they thought of the city. Lynch told her he was up from San Diego, visiting an old friend from before the war, and taking in the city while his buddy was at work.
San Francisco Slaughter Page 10