by S. W. Lauden
“You take cream with your coffee?”
Greg looked up, startled by the interruption.
“Excuse me? Oh. Black’s fine.”
The bartender set the mug down, giving Greg a strange look before heading back to the kitchen. Greg’s hand checked the gun in his coat pocket. He half expected the bartender to come back with a gun of his own.
Greg turned his attention to the newspaper lying on the bar. He’d been avoiding The SoCal Sentinel since his visit to their office, but a headline caught his attention. He spun the page around and scanned the story.
LA Buzz: “Frankenstein’ Marijuana Hybrid Rumored In ANF”
by Leslie Thompson, Staff Reporter
Rumors have been flying since a joint law enforcement raid left three people dead, resulted in dozens of arrests, and scorched several acres in the Angeles National Forest late last summer.
Sherriff’s Department and DEA sources have been tight-lipped when asked about their excessive use of force, but an anonymous source close to the investigation has come forward to shed light on the situation.
“That crop the Forest Service and Sheriff’s Department burned down was no normal marijuana field. It was something much scarier, a Frankenstein strain that, if any plants survived or if others exist, could have serious repercussions for decades to come.”
At the center of the controversy is former police officer and punk rock legend, Greg Salem. The elusive Mr. Salem has been unavailable for comment, but performed an announced reunion with his legendary punk rock band, Bad Citizen Corporation, earlier this week. The show took place at a Fullerton club called Danny’s Place in front of a sold out crowd.
Greg found it hilarious how the rumors took on a life of their own. Leslie Thompson’s personal interest in him, however, was less funny. The waitress with the bear paw tattoo set his plate down right on top of the newspaper.
“Get you anything else? A warm-up, maybe?”
Greg tried to play it cool. He picked his fork up and poked the yolk on his egg. The snotty yellow liquid oozed out onto his pancakes. He pushed the plate back and cleared his throat.
“Sorry. I asked for over medium.”
She snapped her gum while thinking it over. As if she already knew that he wasn’t there for breakfast at all.
“Cook won’t be happy about that.”
“I’m not sure that’s my problem. That egg’s practically raw.”
“Maybe you should tell him yourself. Come on.”
Greg stood up, followed her around the bar and through the swinging kitchen door. He kept his eye on her tattoo as they walked. The big biker he’d met on his last visit was standing in front of the flat top griddle. He was wearing the same red bandana, Harley Davidson t-shirt and leather vest. The waitress tapped the cook on the shoulder.
“This customer’s got a complaint.”
Red spun around, a huge cleaver in his fist. Thick streams of sweat were running down his chubby red face. Greg slipped his hands into his coat pockets, bracing for a fight. The cook’s voice was somewhere between a growl and a bark.
“What seems to be the problem?”
“I don’t like my eggs runny.”
Red laughed, pulling out a pack of cigarettes. He bent down and lit one on the stove without ever letting go of the cleaver.
“Yeah. You strike me as a guy who likes them hard.”
“That might be true, but I’m guessing only one of us has been in a prison shower.”
Red took a step forward, but Greg held his ground. The waitress just shook her head and wandered off into the storeroom. Greg waited until she shut the door before he went on.
“Let’s cut the crap. I’m up here looking for a friend of mine.”
“What makes you think I know anything about that?”
“I doubt much happens up here that you don’t know about.”
Red took a big drag, shoving the butt into a plate of food under the heat lamp.
“One thing’s for sure. I know all about you. You’re that ex-cop that likes to shoot kids.”
Now Greg took a step forward. The two men were eyeballing each other via the pass-through, like husband and wife on visiting day. They were still staring each other down when the waitress came back out to grab the ruined plate of food. She took one look at the defiled pancakes and dumped the whole plate into the trash. Nobody said a word until she slipped back into the storeroom again.
“Nice ink on that waitress. You see a lot of bear paw tattoos around here?”
“I’d stop asking questions if I was you.”
“And I’d start answering if I was you.”
Red spun around and cracked two new eggs onto the flattop. They crackled and spat on a thin film of grease.
“Either show me a warrant or get out of my restaurant.”
It was a cliché, but an effective one. There wasn’t much Greg could do without a badge to back him up. At least not legally. He walked around and stuck his gun against the back of Red’s head.
“Let me jog your memory. He’s a thin guy, with long blonde hair. Looks like a junkie, talks like a surfer. You couldn’t miss him around here.”
“I’m telling the truth. I haven’t seen anybody who looks like that.”
Greg could see the cleaver slowly rising up. He shoved his barrel deeper into Red’s neck and told him to drop it.
“I might not be a cop any more, but they’ll still take my word over yours any day.”
Red set the weapon down, bringing his hands up. This is where Greg would normally cuff him, but the Police Chief had taken those back along with the rest of his gear. So he told Red to get down on his knees instead. There was one more question Greg needed to ask, even though he knew it was a long shot.
“What about a guy named Tommy? He work for you?”
“Who?”
“Come on. Black guy with a big smile. Deals a little weed. I know you sent him down to The Bay Cities earlier this week to keep an eye on me.”
“The only place I’d send a black guy is back to Africa.”
Greg almost shot the racist fuck on principle, but the storeroom door creaked open before he had the chance.
“That’s enough.”
The waitress was standing there with a shotgun in her hand. Then the bartender stepped into the kitchen at the same moment with a familiar baseball bat. Greg lowered his gun, shoving it back in his pocket. Greg squeezed by the waitress, dropping a twenty on the bar before he headed for the parking lot.
“Keep the change.”
›
Tommy was sitting on his motorcycle outside of the cabin when Greg pulled up. His timing was a little too perfect. Any chance that he had come into Greg’s life by accident was completely gone.
Rocket from the Crypt’s “On A Rope” came to a stop as Greg swung the door open. He and Tommy eyed each other while the wind rustled the leaves overhead in the trees. It was Tommy who finally stood up and ambled over.
“I was starting to think you weren’t coming back.”
“I might’ve hurried if I’d been expecting company.”
Greg stood up, resting an elbow on the roof of his car. The band Fear was bashing through “Let’s Have A War” on the stereo now. Tommy shook his head and smiled.
“You really do love that old punk shit, don’t you?”
“Reminds me of happier times. What brings you out here?”
“Heard a rumor about your friend. Thought I should let you know as soon as possible.”
“I’m listening.”
“Word from my boys up here is that Red has him at the bar.”
Greg was unsure whether he should tell him that he’d just come from there. He wanted to see exactly how much info Tommy would share before tipping his hand. In Greg’s experience, salesmen didn’t give anything away for
free. Not unless they could double their investment by the end of the day. So he didn’t respond at all. Tommy called his bluff.
“You can take the information or leave it. That’s on you. Don’t say I never did anything for you, though.”
Tommy turned to leave. He was steps from his motorcycle when Greg finally spoke up.
“Thanks for stopping by.”
“No problem, but I’d look into that rumor if I was you. That Red’s an evil son of a bitch. No telling what he’d do to your friend if he doesn’t get what he wants.”
“Which is what exactly?”
“Grass, cash or ass. Red controls all three up here.”
Greg shook his head. He couldn’t risk Tommy being right about Marco.
“I just came from there. In the kitchen. I would have known if Marco was there.”
“I’d go back. Take a closer look this time around. In all the nooks and crannies.”
Tommy slid his helmet on and kicked the motorcycle engine to life. He rolled over to where Greg was still standing and flipped his visor up.
“I wouldn’t go alone if I was you.”
“You volunteering?”
“Maybe.”
Greg shook his head. He still didn’t trust him.
“Thanks, but no, thanks. I think I’ve got this handled.”
“Whatever you say.”
Tommy twisted the throttle and sent a rooster tail of pebbles and dirt into the air. The dust was still settling when J.J. stepped out of the cabin and onto the porch. He had a rifle in his hands and a baffled look on his face.
“What the hell was that about?”
“Looks like you might get the chance to help me rescue Marco after all.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Everything seemed normal at Pete’s when Greg and J.J. drove by. A few motorcycles were scattered around the outside of the building and smoke was wafting from the chimney. The ‘Closed’ sign in the window was definitely unusual.
Greg went a few miles up the road before turning around. He killed the engine and slipped the El Camino into neutral, letting gravity do the rest of the work. No point in giving Red and his men any advance notice that he was coming back. The car glided into the far end of the parking lot, coasting to a stop behind some dumpsters. They parked next to an out-of-service phone booth that was more of an exhibitionist’s outhouse these days.
The Glock was on the dashboard in front of Greg. J.J. had an old hunting rifle across his lap. They weren’t exactly loaded for a siege, but they hadn’t come empty handed either.
“I’m going to go down there and take a look around. I want you to stay hidden behind the car. Keep the rifle pointed at the front door. Understand?”
J.J. was so nervous that it looked like he might pass out. Greg knew he couldn’t storm the place alone , but a queasy bass player wouldn’t be much help either. He was starting to wonder if he should have taken Tommy up on his offer of help after all. “You don’t have to shoot anybody. Just lay down some fire if you see me come running back this way. And try not to kill me in the process.”
Greg forced a reassuring laugh. More than anything, he didn’t want J.J.’s blood on his hands.
“Keep your head down and you’ll be all right.”
They both opened their doors and climbed out. J.J. got in place while Greg followed the edge of the parking lot to the back of the building. He hoped the kitchen door would be open so he could take Red by surprise. It was unlikely that anybody inside would start shooting if Greg could get a gun to Red’s head again.
He reached up to try the knob. Unlocked. Greg cracked it open, ducking down to take a look around. The sound of meat sizzling and a cloud of foul-smelling smoke greeted him. Somebody was definitely standing in front of the flat top griddle, but it was hard to make out who it was. He pushed the door open a few more inches and crawled inside.
The smoke was thicker than he originally anticipated, which gave him a little cover. He moved quickly to where he hoped Red was cooking. Greg edged around a large stainless steel prep table and sprang. It was Red all right, face down on the flat top and close to well done. The butcher knife he’d used to threaten Greg earlier was sticking out of his back.
Greg reached for the knob and killed the flame. He badly wanted to vomit, could feel the bile rushing in from the corners of his mouth, but choked it back. Whoever had done this to Red might still be inside the bar. And they might have Marco with them.
He went to the swinging kitchen door, popping up to take a look through the round window. There were two more bodies laid out on the bar, head to toe. He caught his breath and took a closer look. It was a couple of the young bikers that he’d seen hanging around the place in recent weeks. He didn’t know their names, but recognized their colorful leather jackets. It was two of the guys Tommy was hanging out with the day they met.
The door made a loud creaking sound when Greg pushed it open. He froze, waiting for thundering footsteps—or worse. When nothing happened, he pushed his way through until he was standing behind the bar. The bartender was slumped on the floor in the corner, the front of his T-shirt soaked through with blood. Greg kept moving forward into the dining room.
There was no sign of the waitress with the bear paw tattoo, or Marco. He did a quick sweep of the bathrooms and the small market, carefully clearing room after room. Everything was silent and still when he circled back into the kitchen. Red was in the same place Greg had left him, but the sizzling had mercifully stopped. He was about to go outside to call 911 when he remembered the little storeroom.
Greg inched over to the door. His heart was beating like a kick drum in his chest. He kept his back pressed against the wall, trying to listen over the high-pitched tinnitus whining in his ear. Greg swung the door inward, waving his gun back and forth as he entered. A few dusty shelves were pushed against the walls, but the room was mostly empty. All except for a single chair that was covered in coils of rope. A folded note was laying on the seat. Greg’s name was written on the front.
He tore it open, reading the simple message several times to take it in:
The job offer’s expired. You can kiss your friend goodbye. And your favorite Ursula.
—Magnus
There was a hand-drawn bear paw under the signature.
›
The El Camino came barreling down the mountain roads. The wheels squealed as Greg powered through the curves. J.J. was gripping the dashboard as they went from seventy miles per hour to thirty-five in the blink of an eye, topping ninety in the straightaways. They reached the freeway in record time and made it to The Bay Cities off-ramp a little over three hours later. Eddie’s went by in a blur as Greg tore up the pavement in his rush to get home.
Kristen was the first call Greg made after he finally got reception again. Then, when he got no answer, she became the second and third calls as well. It wasn’t until after Greg had left lengthy messages, and texting until his thumbs were sore, that he finally called the police to report the horrific scene at Pete’s. He and J.J. were long gone before the first cruisers arrived.
They screeched to a stop in the alley outside of the house. J.J. was right behind Greg when he crashed through the back gate, The two of them almost went through the sliding glass door at the back of the house.
“Kristen! Are you here?!”
They came around the corner into the living room and found her. She was sitting upright in a chair with her hands folded in her lap. Her eyes were round and wide and her skin was pale. Maggie Keane was seated in the love seat right across from her. She was the one who broke the silence.
“Hello, Greg. Who’s your cute friend?”
Greg fell to his knees, letting his arms drop to his sides. J.J. stepped around him and took a seat next to Maggie. They were already making small talk when Kristen went over and helped Greg to his feet. She led him into the be
droom and softly closed the door.
“I think we need to talk.”
He came out of his stupor long enough to see that she had been crying. He wanted to strangle her for ignoring his calls the last couple of days, but pulled her to his chest instead. She spoke in a soft voice as he ran his fingers through her hair.
“I’m pregnant, Greg.”
›
“I have to admit I’m impressed. I never would have given you free reign to run around the mountains if I thought you might actually escape.”
Marco grunted in response. It was the most he could manage with a balled up sock stuffed into his mouth. He was naked and his feet were in a bucket of water. Wires ran from the clamps on his fingertips to a car battery on the ground nearby.
Despite the distractions, Marco could tell that they were at a new location. Somewhere indoors. He had been brought there unconscious and there was still a bag over his head, but it definitely didn’t smell like the forest. He thought he could even hear a TV playing in the background. It was a relief to know that he wouldn’t necessarily become bear food.
There was something different about Magnus’s voice too.
“Almost makes me think that maybe I chose the wrong guy to run my operation.”
Marco tried to laugh, but it only produced a small snot bubble from his left nostril. He thought he’d probably be willing to sign up for the Marine Corp. at this point, if it meant he could stop getting his ass kicked. If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.
“I don’t think you have half the brains of your partner, but you’re persistent. I’ll give you that. What do you say we bury the hatchet and start fresh?”
Marco’s brain was screaming, “Too soon! Too soon!” But his head was nodding in agreement. He was willing to do whatever Magnus said after watching him sink a butcher knife into that biker’s back. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen Magnus kill, but it was the first time he’d seen him enjoy it. The look of sheer joy on his face as he dealt the final blow was enough to turn Marco into believer. Magnus was a crazy son of a bitch, but he’d sure as hell make a better boss than an enemy.