San Francisco Slaughter

by Jack Badelaire

  One thing led to another, and the next thing Lynch knew, he was looking at his wristwatch in the dark, the luminous dial telling him it was 2200 hours. He gently removed Mary’s arm from across his stomach as he eased himself out from under the covers, trying not to wake her. Mary let out a contented sigh and rolled over, her breasts swaying with the movement, illuminated by the moonlight coming through the hotel room window. She looked up at him sleepily as he dressed.

  “I guess you’ve got to go?” she asked.

  “Yeah, sorry, I don’t want my buddy to think I’ve gotten lost.”

  Mary smiled. “I had a real nice time.”

  Lynch pulled on his jeans and leaned over, gently kissing one of Mary’s breasts. She let out a soft moan and reached up, running her hands through his hair.

  “How about one for the road?” she said. “I’ll make it worth your while…”

  Lynch was about to protest, but Mary’s hands were already unzipping his fly.

  “Well, if you insist,” he replied.

  He left the hotel room an hour later.

  TWENTY

  No sooner had Lynch shut the door to his own hotel room, than Richard was knocking on the adjoining door. Lynch opened it and found Richard fully dressed in a set of dark street clothes, the butt of his Walther peeking out from underneath his jacket.

  “Where the heck have you been?” Richard asked, his brow furrowed in annoyance.

  “Out taking in the sights, playing tourist, getting laid,” Lynch replied. “Why, what’s wrong?”

  “Get dressed, grab your war-bag, and let’s go. Blake called, and we’re supposed to meet him at the SEC warehouse. I’ve been waiting on you for two hours.”

  “Give me ten minutes and I’ll be ready,” Lynch said, and shut the door.

  He glanced at his watch and saw it was almost midnight. Whatever Blake wanted to talk about, it could wait until he’d showered.

  Thirty minutes later, Lynch and Richard were pulling into the parking lot next to the Steiger Electronics warehouse. Lynch didn’t see Blake’s car, but he did notice a few inches of light shining out from underneath the warehouse’s rolling door. A moment later, the door rolled up to the height of a man, revealing Blake motioning them to pull inside behind his own vehicle. Glancing down, Lynch noticed Richard had pulled his .38 Super, holding the gun next to his thigh.

  “Worried about something?” Lynch asked.

  “You never want to find out the hard way you’re the last loose end in need of tidying up,” Richard answered. Lynch’s hand went under his jacket, where he felt the reassuring bulk of the .45 riding on his waistband.

  Richard pulled the Gran Torino inside the warehouse, and Blake immediately dropped the rolling door back down, hiding them from sight. The two men stepped out of the car.

  “Took you two long enough,” Blake said. “I’ve been here almost three hours.”

  “Romeo here was out until almost midnight,” Richard replied.

  “No one told us we needed to be sitting by a telephone,” Lynch shot back. “You said to lay low for a while.”

  Blake grunted. “Well, I’m glad you got your pipes cleaned. The rest of us have been doing our best to keep Steiger’s baby out of the jaws of the wolves circling the building. This afternoon one of his employees called the police and stated the unidentified man could be a missing co-worker. Since then, our parking lot has been a media circus.”

  “Has anyone caught onto the gambling angle yet?” Richard asked.

  “No, not yet. I’m sure it’ll come up, though. Right now all we’ve told them is Roth called in sick at the beginning of the week and we hadn’t heard from him since. But once the police get deeper into their background check and his banking records come up, it’ll be obvious. We don’t have much time before this becomes a far greater scandal.”

  “Well, what’s left for us to do?” Lynch asked. “This whole operation has blown wide open. Right now, it’s just damage control.”

  Blake nodded. “Exactly. That’s why we need to go after Cranston and get to him before the police do.”

  “Aha,” Richard said, an amused look on his face. Lynch turned to him and frowned.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked.

  Richard nodded towards Blake. “They want us to kill Cranston before he gets caught by the cops and hangs Steiger out to dry in order to try and make a deal.”

  Blake nodded. “That’s one of the reasons, I’m not going to try and deny it. The other is, he’s a murdering bastard and a dirty ex-cop. Cranston is a piece of shit, and he needs to be scraped up and thrown away.”

  “And you want us to carry the shovel,” Richard replied.

  Blake crossed his arms in front of his chest. “If you two want to walk away, we’re certainly not going to stop you. I’ll try and find someone else who’ll do the job. But we’ve got a ticking clock counting down right now, and the sooner we deal with Cranston, the better.”

  Richard and Lynch looked at each other. Lynch raised an eyebrow, and Richard nodded, then turned back to Blake. “Double our fee and we’ll do it.”

  “Forty grand apiece?” Blake asked. “We’re already out the fifty thousand we gave Cranston, plus the twenty-two we paid you both in fees and expenses.”

  Richard gave a nonchalant shrug. “If you want it done now, by us, it’ll cost you. We’ve seen Cranston operate twice now, and he’s not your average sleazeball. He’s a crack shot and has access to automatic weapons and an armored car.”

  Blake scratched his chin for a moment before nodding. “Okay, it’s a deal. If we can recover the dough Cranston took from me last night, you can have that, and we’ll round out the remainder later.”

  “So, you want to move on him right now?” Lynch asked. “How do we even know where he is?”

  “We don’t,” Blake replied. “But I know someone who probably does.”

  That someone turned out to be SFPD Lieutenant Melvin Snyder. A twenty-seven year veteran of the force, Snyder was, in Blake’s words, “the dirtiest of the dirty cops”. He took a piece of the action from every game in town: drugs, hookers, numbers rackets, stolen goods, gambling dens, protection money, and much, much more.

  But unlike Cranston, Snyder was the epitome of caution. He lived in a relatively modest third-story apartment a few blocks from the park, in a solidly blue-collar section of the city. He bought his suits off the rack and drove a five-year old sedan. His police record was clean, with no formal complaints or demotions over the course of his career, and Snyder was famous - or perhaps infamous - for stating he’d never pulled his gun even once in the line of duty.

  Of course, every veteran cop on the force knew of the truth behind Snyder’s lies. The man was referred to as “Snyder the Spider”, because his web of influence reached every corner of the police department, and he was able to pick up on the slightest vibrations hinting at an Internal Affairs investigation or a higher-up sniffing around his activities. Snyder was also adept at gathering dirt on politicians, businessmen, and of course, other cops, giving him the necessary leverage to move in on a deal or extricate himself out of a bad situation with impunity.

  Although Blake didn’t know of any firm relationship between Snyder and Cranston, he figured if there was one man in San Francisco who knew where Cranston was hiding, it’d be the Spider. That’s why half an hour later, Blake, Richard, and Lynch found themselves sitting in the Gran Torino a block from Snyder’s apartment.

  “Snyder and I came up together through the force,” Blake said. “He’d recognize me no matter what disguise I wore, so it’ll be up to the two of you to get the information from him. Snyder might not be a fighter, but he’s damn smart, and oily as they come. Don’t give him any room to maneuver, or he’ll find the advantage in any situation.”

  “What do you want us to do with him after we’ve got what we came for?” Richard asked.

  Blake looked at the Texan. “Snyder might be a son of a bitch, but he’s still a cop. I don’t
owe him anything, but his death will put even more heat on the whole situation.”

  Richard nodded, but drew his Walther and performed a brass-check anyway. “Alright, we won’t kill him, but I won’t make any guarantees if he decides to get ornery.”

  Lynch and Richard exited the car and cut through a dark alleyway smelling of piss and garbage. It was a cool, damp night, and thankfully the cloud cover above hid most of the moonlight, allowing the two men to move through the darkness undetected. Lynch carried his Colt and the .357 snub, as well as the slapjack, the switchblade, and his small flashlight. Like Richard, he was dressed in dark street clothes, and wore black leather gloves and a balaclava rolled up on top of his head like a woolen cap.

  They reached the alleyway next to Snyder’s apartment building undetected, and after pulling down their balaclavas, Richard gave Lynch a boost up to the first landing on the fire escape. Working carefully, Lynch lowered the ladder down to the ground, and Richard climbed up, his soft-soled shoes making no noise on the rusted iron. Moving with great caution, the two men ascended the fire escape. They stopped every few rungs to look around and listen, but there was no foot traffic to be seen, and most of the apartment windows were dark.

  Within a couple of minutes, the two men crouched on the iron landing outside of Snyder’s apartment. The window facing them led into Snyder’s kitchen, and the room was dark, but Lynch heard the faint sounds of jazz music coming from within, and a sliver of light cut across the hallway outside the kitchen door. It seemed as if Snyder was home and awake.

  Producing his red-lensed penlight, Lynch illuminated the window latch while Richard went to work with a small set of lock-picking and burglary tools. Using a thin metal strip resembling a smaller version of the jimmy often used to open locked cars, Richard worked the probe in between the window halves and slowly unhooked the latch. Removing the probe, the two men waited a full minute in case Snyder heard the noise and came to investigate.

  When the coast seemed clear, Richard drew his Walther and covered Lynch while the younger man slowly, carefully, opened the window an inch at a time. Thankfully the window was in good shape, and didn’t squeak or grate. It opened smoothly and with little effort, the window frame no doubt fitted with counter-weights that allowed someone to easily raise the heavy wood and glass window. Once he opened it all the way, Lynch slipped through, lowering himself carefully to the kitchen floor after making sure he wasn’t about to stick his foot in the trash can or in a dog’s food bowl.

  The sound of a woman’s soft laughter reached Lynch’s ears, and he turned to see Richard look at him and frown. Having a second person there complicated things, but with their timeline so tight, there was little choice but to continue on with the operation. Handing Lynch his pistol, Richard climbed through the window, contorting his long frame with surprising skill. Lynch wondered how many times Richard had snuck through an open window over the years.

  Handing Richard his gun back, Lynch moved quietly and carefully to the kitchen door and peered around the corner. He saw a dark living room illuminated only by the moonlight filtering in through the edges of the drawn curtains, but on the other side of the short hall, a bedroom door was open a few inches and bright light cut across the floor and up the wall. The music was coming from the bedroom, the slight crackling of a bedside transistor radio perhaps, and from here Lynch heard the sound of a young woman’s voice, and the deeper, grating voice of an older man.

  Richard stepped up next to Lynch, and the two men nodded to each other. Lynch kicked open the bedroom door as hard as he could and stepped aside, while Richard burst into the room, Walther at the ready. Snyder, a short, rotund man in his fifties, sat bolt upright in bed, eyes bulging and mouth wide open in shock. A young blonde who appeared no older than twenty let out a shriek and pulled the covers up to her neck with both hands. Snyder let out a curse, then lunged for the open nightstand drawer.

  Richard fired a single round from his suppressed Walther and a bottle of champagne on the nightstand exploded, spraying booze, foam, and slivers of glass everywhere. The girl screamed and Snyder let out a cry of pain, blood seeping from a half-dozen shallow wounds on his face, neck, and bare chest. The cop recovered quickly, however, and he slowly picked the broken glass from his face, wiping away a sheen of champagne spray as he did so.

  “You guys are so fucked,” Snyder said with a chuckle.

  Richard looked to Lynch. “We’ve been getting that a lot lately.”

  “Do you two clowns have any idea who I am?” Snyder asked.

  “Mel, baby, what’s going on?” the young woman whispered, her face pale with terror. A drop of blood ran down her cheek from where a sliver of glass had pricked her, but she didn’t so much as twitch.

  “Don’t sweat it, honey. Just a couple of bozos trying to pull one over on me,” Snyder calmly replied. Lynch was impressed with how fast the cop had regained his composure.

  Richard stepped further into the room and motioned for Lynch to check the nightstand. Looking into the drawer, Lynch saw a nickel-plated Colt Detective Special, a pack of cigarettes and a lighter, a box of condoms, and a molded rubber phallus. He pulled out the snub-nose and the dildo and held them up in front of Snyder.

  “Now I’m wondering which of these you were trying to grab,” Lynch said.

  Snyder turned red with embarrassment. “Real cute, buddy. Why don’t you use both of those on yourself, maybe at the same time.”

  “Gives new meaning to ‘the little death’, doesn’t it?” Richard quipped.

  Lynch tucked the snub-nose into his jacket pocket and waggled the dildo at Snyder like an accusing finger. “We’re not here to play with your rubber dong, Snyder. We want information.”

  “Go fuck yourselves,” Snyder shot back.

  “We want to know where Cranston is holed up,” Richard said.

  Snyder glanced from one man to the other. “I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

  Lynch thought for a moment, and then he delivered a vicious backhand to Snyder, smacking him hard in the face with the dildo and leaving a red welt on Snyder’s cheek.

  “Okay,” Richard said, trying not to laugh. “Maybe we are here to play with your rubber dong.”

  “I think it’s a good look for him,” Lynch replied.

  Snyder reached up and touched the reddened welt across his face. “Are you two clowns fucking high or something?”

  “We’re not high,” Lynch replied, throwing the dildo back in the nightstand drawer and pulling the slapjack from his pocket. “We’re actually deadly fucking serious, and we want to know where to find Cranston.”

  Snyder was silent for a moment. “You knuckleheads are for real? He’ll chew you up and spit you out. Cranston’s a fucking maniac.”

  “So we’ve discovered,” Richard replied. “Now, spill the beans.”

  “Not going to happen,” Snyder answered. “When you sad shits get whacked and he comes looking for whoever gave him up, he’ll feed me to the fishes, literally. I know he’s done it at least once, out there in the Bay.”

  With a sharp flick of his wrist, Lynch brought the slapjack down on Snyder’s forearm. The sound of bone cracking was shockingly loud in the small bedroom. To his credit, Snyder didn’t scream. He clenched his teeth and sucked in air with a hiss of pain, holding his injured arm against his chest.

  “A bit nastier than a rubber dick, isn’t it?” Lynch asked. “This little beauty can turn you into hamburger really quickly if I put my back into it.”

  The blonde had retreated under the covers to the point where only her eyes and the top of her head were visible. “Mel, tell them! They’re going to kill you!”

  “Shut it, you stupid twat. If I tell them, Cranston will kill me!” Snyder fired back.

  The blonde’s head popped up completely from under the blanket. “Don’t call me a twat, you asshole! I was trying to help you!”

  “I don’t need your goddamn help!” Snyder roared at her, completely ignoring the two men thre
atening him with bodily harm.

  Richard looked at Lynch in disbelief. “What is this, an episode of All in the Family?”

  The Texan stepped up to the foot of the bed and pointed his Walther at the covers. Richard fired twice, blowing holes in the blanket between Snyder’s legs and sending puffs of fabric and mattress stuffing up into the air. The blonde screamed and threw aside the covers, leaping out of the bed and diving for the closet door. Lynch had only a second to admire a pert bottom and long legs before the girl slammed the closet door shut, her hysterical sobbing still audible.

  “Okay, fat man,” Lynch said to Snyder. “We’re alone now, just the three of us. I’ll give you three choices. One, you tell us where to find Cranston and we leave. Two, you try and act tough and hold out as I break your arms and legs in a dozen places, until we walk out of here leaving you crippled for life. Or three, you tell us you’re not talking one more time, and my friend here puts a bullet through your fucking head. What’s it going to be?”

  Snyder glowered at the two men while holding his broken arm, his lips drawn into a thin line. Finally he let out a curse under his breath.

  “Sorry, I didn’t catch that,” Lynch said.

  Snyder seemed to slump, his body deflating. “Okay, you fucks, you win,” he said at last. “He’s holed up with the last of his cronies in a big house just off of Route 1, a few miles east of Bodega Bay.”

  Snyder gave the exact directions to Cranston’s hideout, a two-story cabin on a hill. Cranston was there, along with six of his men, and he wasn’t planning to come down out of the hills for a couple of weeks, at least until the heat died down.

  “So tell us how you know all of this,” Lynch asked.

  Snyder curled his lip. “How d’you think I know? Because I know everything. I keep my ear to the rail, and I hear what’s coming and what’s going. One of Cranston’s goon squad is on my payroll, and he told me where they’re hiding out. If the heat was on to him, I was going to offer up the information, for a price of course. A word in the right ear at the right time can be worth big bucks.”