Beyond Blue

by Austin S. Camacho

  Jerome’s touch made Linda’s teeth ache, like staring at pigeon tracks in the snow. She turned, clutched the big book to her chest, and marched across the street toward Rico Steele. At the entrance to the alley she hesitated. She could already smell last night’s chow mein from the dumpster she would walk past in a moment. The alley was barely ten feet wide, a gap between tall brick buildings just big enough to accommodate a garbage truck. Overflowing trash cans lined one side. Windows in the brick walls above offered further opportunity to add garbage to the alley. For a moment Linda thought that someone had stretched a translucent gray tarp over the narrow alley, but it was just the sky.

  Holding the ledger over her heart like a shield, Linda stepped into the alley. It was deeper than she had remembered. Steele stood at the far end, his back to the wall, waving her in. She stepped forward tentatively at first, then more quickly until she was running toward the tall man in jeans, cowboy boots and a down jacket. When she was within ten feet of him she began to talk.

  “Oh, Rico, thank God you heard me in the hall.”

  “Yep, we heard you, Linda, and that was some pretty quick thinking on your part,” Steele said, smiling. “And you managed to bring the code book with you to boot.”

  “Yes, but you shouldn’t be down here in the alley,” Linda said, skidding to a halt in front of him. “Didn’t you realize this would be a trap?”

  Before Steele could answer, Frankie stepped into the shadowy alley, his automatic thrust forward. “Okay, cowboy, it’s time for a rematch.”

  Steele shoved Linda aside with his left hand, his right darting under his jacket.

  “Not a good idea,” Doc called, stepping into the alley behind Frankie with a pistol aimed at Steele’s head. “Not unless you’re reaching in there to pull your gun out and place it on the ground in front of you.”

  When Steele hesitated, Frankie said, “Or I can shoot the girl while Doc keeps his sights on you.”

  Steele looked at Linda, then very slowly pulled his revolver from its holster and lowered it to the ground. The two gunmen stepped deeper and deeper into the alley, and Linda looked around quickly, seeing no way out.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Everything Stone saw in Chinatown made him hungry, and he knew why. Some of his best memories were times he had come here with Sherry. Each time they would wander into a different restaurant. His favorites were always on the second floor. They had yet to find one that didn’t serve great food.

  He had been wandering these streets in his car since before his partner Steele parked across the street from the “alley of doom” as Steele had called it. All Stone had to do was listen to Marvin Gaye on his CD player, watch for Linda, and worry about his partner stepping onto the bull’s-eye.

  So it was that he was sitting at a light in the next block when he saw Linda enter the alley. On the corner to his left he spotted Jerome, waiting away from the action, as expected. Stone knew him from photographs, but Jerome had no way of recognizing Stone. In fact, none of them had ever seen his black Grand Am, only Steele’s little buggy in which they always traveled together because it got better gas mileage.

  Stone couldn’t deny his tension as he sat at the light watching Linda, and the three thugs he and Steele had tussled with in Jerome’s office who followed her into the alley. Just hang on Rico, he was thinking. The cavalry is coming. Just don’t start any crap.

  At the back of the alley, Rico Steele stood up after leaving his gun on the ground, keeping his hands away from his body.

  “So, does it take both you boys with guns drawn to take me to your stupid boss?” Steele called out. “And why are you fellows so far away? You can’t be that scared of one unarmed guy. Of course, I did kind of put an ass whooping on you the last time we met.”

  Doc and Frankie marched steadily forward until they stood about twenty feet away from Steele on opposite sides of the alley. Their guns were tightly focused on Steele’s chest. Behind them, Psycho entered the alley. His big fists were empty.

  “We talked it over,” Psycho said as he stalked toward Steele. “We figured you’re due a little payback. But we didn’t see your big, black partner so just to be safe they’ll keep their guns on you. If there’s any surprises they just shoot the two of you.”

  “And what do you do while they’re standing there keeping me covered?” Steele asked.

  “Me? I’ll be beating your big ass.”

  The second he was within reach, Psycho swung a vicious right at Steele’s head. Steele effortlessly blocked it, and the next two follow-up punches. But then as he backpedaled his back hit the brick wall behind him. Psycho swung lower, driving a ham-like fist into Steele’s ribs.

  Then the honking horn drew everybody’s attention. Linda screamed as a black Grand Am roared into the alley in reverse, running fast enough to make the transmission scream. It was a close fit but Stone, twisted around with an arm on the back of the seat, was keeping away from the walls as best he could.

  “Holy shit!” Doc shouted. He and Frankie quickly spun the guns that had been focused on Steele toward the oncoming car. Doc fired once before running toward the end of the alley. Frankie stood his ground and fired three times, knocking out the car’s back window. Stone didn’t react at all, despite the glass shards in his hair. Steele could see the anger in Stone’s eyes just before the car’s rear bumper swept Frankie’s legs out from under him and he slid up onto Stone’s trunk.

  When Psycho turned to see the car approaching, Steele unloaded his best right cross on Psycho’s jaw. The body builder went down hard, but before he hit the ground Steele had snatched up his gun. Doc, who had been running as hard as he could, slammed his left shoulder into the back wall. Steele jammed his gun barrel into Doc’s stomach, doubling him over. Then he whipped an uppercut into Doc’s big jaw.

  Stone locked up his brakes, stopping the car only seven feet from the back wall and barely a foot away from Psycho’s head. Frankie slid off the trunk, hit the ground and rolled to the wall. Steele holstered his weapon and quickly checked Frankie’s pulse. He was unconscious but breathing, which Steele figured was more than he deserved. The other two would awaken with numbing headaches, but should be otherwise fine. He wished he had time to wake them and really teach them a lesson, but there was no telling when someone might break with tradition and call the cops. So instead he snatched the ledger out of Linda’s hands and pitched it through the open back window onto the back seat of Stone’s car.

  “Up on the trunk,” Steele ordered, grabbing Linda’s arm. He jumped forward, his left hand latching onto the back seat shoulder harness. “Go,” he shouted, and Stone drove the car forward. Linda clutched Steele’s free arm with both hands, looking like a kid on her first roller coaster ride.

  “What’s the matter?” Steele asked with a grin. “Never rode on the trunk before? These seats have the best view.”

  As soon as the car was clear of the alley, Stone stopped. Steele slid off and opened the front door for Linda. Once she was seated, he opened the back door, brushed safety glass chips off a side of the seat and was just about seated when Stone hit the gas and slammed him against the back.

  “Easy, man,” Steele said, slapping Stone on the side of his head. “No sense killing us now. We’re in the clear, and those guys won’t be chasing anybody for an hour at least.”

  “Yeah,” Stone said. “It looks like we’ve got this one all wrapped up, just waiting for the bow. With this code book we can make the link between Jerome, the crooked companies he works for, and the cases he’s worked for them. I can’t wait to call Gorman and let him know we can clear a bunch of good cops. There’s just one thing.”

  Steele was leaning over the front seat back, reaching for the dashboard to crank up the heat. “What’s that, man?”

  “You touch my head again, I’m going to have to hurt you.”

  Chinatown was certainly a change of scenery for Gunny Robinson. Standing at the restaurant door he raised an eyebrow as a big black sedan with no back wi
ndow sped past. He quickly checked the faces of other pedestrians but no one else reacted at all, except for the one white man in sight, who took off running in the other direction. Inscrutable, that’s what these people were. Inscrutable, or so accustomed to weird sights that they were numb to them.

  The little reaction Gunny drew in this neighborhood was the occasional smile. Not so surprising, since he didn’t look so foreign. Chinese faces bore some resemblance to his Pacific Islander features. Perhaps that made them think he might be one of them. He was dressed suitably for a Sunday morning in gray wool trousers and blazer with a black turtleneck. And he didn’t gawk like tourists generally do. He had learned on Guam that gawking was bad form. Considering his shaved head, barrel chest and tree stump legs, the locals might think he was a visiting sumo wrestler in training.

  Once the damaged car was out of sight, Gunny opened the door to the imaginatively named Good Chinese Kitchen restaurant. Couldn’t these people even pretend to come up with something original? How many had he been to with names like China Buffet, Buddha House, So Good Buffet, Good Dumpling House or the obviously better Excellent Dumpling House, and the ubiquitous Hunan this-that-or-the-other.

  But he trudged up the dark, narrow stairway because this was where Lorenzo Lucania had asked him to join him for a dumpling and some conversation. Gorman had encouraged him to stay close, maybe get inside himself, to keep Lucania on the straight and narrow until he could be pulled off the street.

  The restaurant was a good choice, dark and sparsely populated with a bar up front and a wide dining area beyond. The art motif was provocative Chinese, as if all the painted geishas were waiting to serve you. The carpet was thick and absorbed any stray sounds. Support beams were wrapped in faux jade contact paper, and paper lanterns held very dim light bulbs. On the far side of the buffet setup Lucania sat behind a plate and a pot of tea. He was almost invisible, dressed as always in black

  The Good Chinese Kitchen was filled with the scent of stir-fried food, but otherwise it was a good choice for a meeting. Gunny saw only two other people in the dining area, a young Chinese couple who evidently could see only each other. Gunny grabbed a plate at the buffet station and covered it with a thin layer of fried rice. Then he heaped the plate with his favorite of the choices available, General Tso’s Chicken. Then he joined the undercover policeman at his table.

  “Hungry?” Lucania asked.

  “Always,” Gunny said. “Thirsty too. Is there tea left in that pot?”

  “More’s on the way. And we need to keep this short. I’m expecting more company soon and you probably don’t want to be here when they arrive.”

  A waiter appeared with a fresh pot of tea and extra condiments. Lucania seemed to be enjoying some sort of fried rice combination and a couple of egg rolls, but he still wasn’t smiling. If anything, he seemed tenser than the last time Gunny had seen him. Gunny hoped his news would lighten the mood a bit.

  “So, what is it with you?” Gunny asked, dropping hot mustard on his food. “You related to Johnny Cash or something?”

  “It’s a style thing,” Lucania said. “When you dance with the devil, you ought to dress appropriately.”

  After a moment of industrious chewing, Gunny cleared his mouth and continued. “Well, if you can hold out just a little while longer, I think we can get you off the dance floor.”

  Lucania’s eyes narrowed. “You’re not going to blow my cover.”

  “Look, Lorenzo, don’t get to worrying, man,” Gunny said, pouring more tea. “We won’t jeopardize you, or your mission. But we will get you in out of the cold.”

  “It ain’t that easy.”

  “Don’t have to be easy,” Gunny said. “You’ve got Paul Gorman in your corner now. When he gets involved with things, problems tend to get up and get out of the way.”

  “Really?” Lucania used an egg roll to push food into an orderly circle on his plate. “Your boss Gorman going to talk to the president for me?”

  “Probably just your boss, Vic Warner.”

  Lucania shook his head, his black hair falling over his forehead. “Not destined to be a pleasant visit. You don’t know Warner. He bites the heads off nails.”

  “Should be an interesting meeting,” Gunny said with a chuckle. “Gorman eats nails and spits razor wire.”

  “I know my share of bad dudes,” Lucania said. “I’ve seen in your eyes, and I can see that you’re the real thing. But what about this Gorman. Is he bad?”

  Gunny leaned back, chewing thoughtfully. “Bad? Nah, Paul ain’t bad. But you know, the bad don’t mess with him.”

  Lorenzo Lucania took a deep breath and stared down at the table with his lips clenched together. Then he looked up into Gunny’s eyes. His face softened and for a brief moment all the conflict in his soul leaked out.

  “I’m in a box here, Gunny,” he said in a low, guttural voice. “I can’t squirm any farther. I got no wiggle room here. I’ve done some bad things in this job, but now I’m at the precipice looking down. If I cross that line, then I’m not pretending any longer. I’ll be one of them.” Then his face returned to its usual hard lines.

  Gunny leaned forward. “Hang on, man. Remember, it’s about honor and loyalty, just like in the corps.”

  “Sure,” Lucania said, “but loyalty to who? The guy who put me out on that line? Or the guy who’s taking care of me now?”

  “Loyalty to the uniform,” Gunny said. He would have gone on, but footsteps behind him made him turn. Three big men stalked toward them, all wearing dark colored sport coats and business shirts with the collars open. It was as if they had dressed together that morning. They walked directly to Lucania’s and Gunny’s booth. The biggest man, at the lead, didn’t stop until he was almost on top of them.

  “Morning, Lorenzo,” he said with a Brooklyn twang. “Who’s your friend?”

  “This is Gunny, a new fellow I’m thinking about trying out,” Lucania said with no evidence of tension. “Gunny, this here’s Mike, Gus on the left there and the other guy’s Robbie.”

  Gunny smiled and turned to offer his hand to Mike, who was an imposing figure. Gunny was no small man, running close to 250 pounds except during the holidays when cheesecake and sugar cookies pushed his weight a bit higher. Mike had to be 300 pounds and an inch taller than Gunny’s six foot one inch frame, with long wavy black hair hanging onto the back of his collar. He seized Gunny’s hand in a power grip and gave him a broad smile, the way a Doberman pinscher smiles when he meets you.

  “Mr. Lucania, he don’t need no more help right now,” Mike said.

  Gunny returned the grasp, and remained calm as he looked up. “I think that’s for him to decide. Maybe he just wants to have somebody on his payroll with good manners.”

  “Relax, Mike,” Lucania said.

  “I am relaxed,” Mike said. He stopped squeezing and started pulling, raising Gunny to his feet. “I’m just saying our crew is a good size now, Lorenzo. I got all the muscle you’re ever going to need.”

  “Maybe he just wants to add some brain to that muscle, big man,” Gunny said.

  “Don’t need no Samoan wrestler for that,” Mike snapped. With a grin he pushed Gunny back into the booth. Gunny sprang to his feet, stepping forward so his nose almost touched Mike’s.

  “I am not Samoan,” Gunny said in low tones. “I come from the Royal Kingdom of Tonga. Sicily is probably thirty times as big as all our islands put together, but we seem to have absorbed all the sense they meant to drop in your bigger island.”

  Lucania said, “Fellows, this is pointless.” Gus and Robbie took a couple of steps back and settled into another booth. The couple seated across the room stood and slipped out of the room. The waiter approached from the bar, stopped, and slowly backed away.

  “You’re really asking for me to kick your big ass, ain’t you?” Mike asked.

  Gunny backed off three steps, holding his arms wide and his knees slightly bent. “Bring it, big boy.”

  Ruby carried a big tray of
nachos into the family room and carefully lowered it to the coffee table. The men smiled their approval, and five hands darted for the cheese-covered chips. The three visitors on the sofa and the man on the big floor cushion had the advantage of position, but the man in the easy chair was up quickly to make sure he got his fair share.

  The visitors didn’t seem quite comfortable when they first walked into Rafe’s house. They all followed his lead, hanging their jackets in the hall closet and rolling their shirtsleeves up to just below their elbows. After a weak attempt at small talk, Rafe had walked them to the family room. Smiles grew bigger when Hector greeted them from the couch.

  “Fellows! I told you my brother Rafe would square you away.” Then Hector turned on the game, and everyone relaxed.

  Ruby loaded up a small plate and crept over to Rafe, perched in the La-Z-Boy beside the couch. She stayed low in order to avoid blocking anyone’s view of the soccer game displayed on the big screen television. As she got into position, kneeling on the floor beside Rafe’s chair, Ruby considered an international truth. In the face of team sports, all men became children again.

  Rafe had not raised the chair’s footrest, and his feet dangled above the floor as he balanced the plate on his lap. His right hand alternated between pushing food into his mouth and lifting his beer to it. His left alternated between rubbing her neck and playing in her hair. He had been like this since they arrived at his house and got his visitors settled. In Ruby’s experience, this was just part of hanging with a Latin man. If he had been a dog spraying a tree trunk, he could not have more obviously marked his territory. The weird thing was, she kind of liked it. But what she really wanted was to engage the newcomers in conversation.

  Ruby didn’t really get soccer, a long game with no breaks and low scores. The announcer rattled away in Spanish and the players seemed to ramble around the field in random patterns. This gang was all about the game, and when somebody scored a goal they sent up a loud cheer and raised their bottles to the ceiling.