by J.P. Voss
6
The cops finally let me make a phone call, which I used to call my cousin Vince, who had a party pad down by the boardwalk at Venice Beach. Some space-cadet flower child picked up the call and told me Vince was out trying to score some weed, and that I should call back later. I told her I couldn’t call back later, that I was stuck in San Bernardino County Jail on some trumped-up charges, and I needed Vince to come get me the fuck out. She said, “Bummer man.” Then she gave me some hippie bullshit about the universe being perfect, and how I was probably in jail for something I’d done in a past life. I was going to tell her to shove it, but I was desperate, so I asked her nicely to please give my cousin the message. Then I slammed the phone down.
Late that afternoon, I finally got to see the doctor. Old codger looked like he needed a doctor. He spoke with the dull rasp of a forty-year smoker, had coffee-colored teeth, and really bad pastrami breath. He poked me a few times, told me that I had three cracked ribs, and offered me a hand full of aspirin.
I ended up in a secured area, in a cell by myself. I was actually getting comfortable, and was looking forward to some sleep, when the guards came and got me. A couple of muscle-bound bullies in uniform hauled me out of my cell and dumped me in an interview room. It was fluorescent white, with a metal table, four chairs, and two suits.
Leaning against the far wall wearing a puke-green madras sport coat, a middle-aged burnout with a botched haircut gnawed on a toothpick while he scraped the crud from under his fingernails with a plastic stir stick. He stopped his impromptu manicure, checked his Timex, then scoped me out with a pair of close-to-retirement eyes. His twenty-year baby blues narrowed as he took my inventory and said, “You’re on my shit list you little turd. I retire in six weeks. No way in hell I’m going out with an open file because of you—you little piss ant. You’d better cough it up, or I’m going to personally flush your life down the toilet.”
He walked over and flipped the plastic stir stick at my face, poking me just below the eye. He sat down and plopped his leg up on the steel table, displaying a white polyester pant leg, and a two-toned leather cowboy boot with a fancy inlaid leather star on the sleeve. When his boot hit the table, the other detective looked up.
He was young, didn’t look old enough to be a detective. Dressed in a sharp blue suit and conservative tie, he studied an open file folder with a self-assured demeanor that reeked of arrogance. He snapped the file shut, looked at me with obvious distain, and ordered me to sit down.
“I’m Detective Sanchez,” he said. “This gentleman is my partner, Detective Zico.” He flipped open the file. “It says here your name is Duffy James Allison?”
I nodded my head.
Sanchez glanced at his gold watch, adjusted his gold cufflinks, straightened his red & white blazerstriped tie, then stood up and slapped me across the face with a lightening fast backhand. “You think because I’m Mexican you don’t have to talk to me? You think I’m just some wetback you can nod your head at. When I ask you a question, I want an answer. You nod your head at me again, and I’ll knock your back teeth out. Comprende?”
Zico could hardly contain himself and doubled over with laughter. After he caught his breath, he stood up and threw his toothpick at me. “You better not mess with the Super Mex,” he said. “You ain’t dealing with some East L.A. greaser you little turd. Detective Sanchez here graduated from Stanford University. He’s the youngest man ever promoted to detective, and he’s going to be the first Mexican Chief of Police. You piss him off, he’ll fry your chicharrones.”
Sanchez studied the file while the fire in my cheek burned. He took his sweet time and let the emasculating sting settle into my psyche. He closed up the file and set it neatly on the table. “Do you know what happened to Morgan?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” I replied cautiously. “Is Morgan alright?”
“Why wouldn’t he be alright Duff? Is your brother in some kind of trouble?”
“Do I get to see a lawyer?”
“Do you need a lawyer?”
Do you always answer a question with another question?
Zico flopped in a chair and swung his boot up on the table. He pulled a twisted paperclip out of his top pocket and started cleaning the wax out of his ear. “Where’s the girl?”
“What girl?”
“You’re not too fucking bright,” Zico said. He asked Sanchez, “What’s this little turd’s name again, Duff, duf, dufus? That’s it, dufus.” He flung his paperclip toward me, and I leaned to the right, letting it sail past my head. Zico sat up and said, “Listen to me dufus. The next time you answer a question with a question, I’m going to take you down in the basement and beat the livin’ shit out of you. The worst that can happen to me—they put me on administrative leave—and I retire in six weeks on a full pension. You can play it that way if you want to. Or you can be a smart boy and tell us what you know. You help us, and we can help you out with the district attorney. I’m going to ask you nicely just one more time; where’s the girl?”
Tell them what they know.
Sanchez said, “We want the girl.”
“That’s right,” Zico said. “We want the girl. Whole Goddamn Sheriffs Department wants that little bitch.”
“Detective Sanchez, Detective Zico, I’m willing to cooperate, I’ve always been willing to cooperate. I have no clue where you got the idea that I wasn’t willing to cooperate. I’m just a little confused. Which girl are you talking about?”
“Harper O’Neal,” they said in unison.
“I know a girl named Harper. She works at the truck stop in Barstow. I don’t know her last name. I think she said she was from Oklahoma City. I’m not sure. All I did was give the girl a ride home. How could I know where she went?” I shrugged my shoulders and tried to look innocent. “If I knew where she was, I’d tell you. She’s just some chick that works at the truck stop. I hardly even know her. If you’re trying to find her, you might want to talk to the manager at Tubby’s, or at the trailer court. They know a lot more about her than I do.”
Zico stood up and scratched his balls. He cracked his neck and said, “The kid’s full of shit. You’re in this knee deep you little piss ant.” He grabbed the file from Sanchez. “Let’s go. We’ve got enough evidence to hold this little turd indefinitely.” Zico got in my face and threatened me. “I’m going to put together a rock-solid case against you boy. Then I’m going to ram it up your ass.”
Detective Sanchez opened his coat and pulled out a pack of Pall Malls. He leaned back in his seat and lit a cigarette. “You’ve got one chance. We want the girl. You help us find her, and we’ll tell the prosecutor to go easy on you.”
“If we don’t find her,” Zico said. “You’ll take the weight, all of it, and a little extra.”
Sanchez said, “Think about that tonight after the lights go out, and think about how it’s going to feel celebrating your thirtieth birthday in San Quentin.”
“You want some advice kid?” Zico stood up and headed for the door. “Don’t pick up the soap in the shower.”
Sanchez said something in Spanish that sounded like an insult and followed Zico out into the hall.
The lights were bright, the room was hot, and I stewed in my own misery for a long time. When a guard opened the door, I was glad to be going back to my cell. I started to get up, and a tall man with salt and pepper hair wearing a gray-flannel suit walked past me. He placed his black attaché case on the table, unbuttoned his coat, and sat down. I fell back in my seat.
“I’m Special Agent Andrews,” he said. “I’ll get right to the point Mr. Allison. The local authorities like you for armored car robbery. They don’t have a very strong case, but that won’t stop them from creating one. The Sheriffs Department thinks you were working with the O’Neal woman. The local deputy sheriff in Barstow felt humiliated by the girl. He described her as a femme fatale who used her feminine wiles to distract him. He’s convinced the money was in your brother’s pickup truck when he
questioned her at the trailer park. The Sheriffs Department is taking this one personally.”
“I don’t know where the girl is. I don’t know where the money is. I don’t know anything.”
“You misunderstand my meaning Mr. Allison. I’m only trying to convey to you the severity of your situation. I don’t care about the girl, or the money.” He opened his case and arranged several files on the table. “I do have something you might care about.” He flipped open one of the manila folders. “Look familiar?”
“What’s that?”
“It’s a copy of your brother Morgan’s arrest report. That’s his mug shot on top.”
“Where is he? Is he okay? Can I talk to him?”
“We have him in custody. He’s safe for the time being. You don’t seem surprised by his arrest.”
“The other cops told me,” I said.
“The local authorities have no knowledge of your brother’s arrest.”
“How do you know?”
“I work for the Federal Government Mr. Allison. As an agent for the Federal Bureau of Investigation, I have knowledge and influence that far exceeds that of the San Bernardino Sheriffs Department. I know what they know, and I know things they couldn’t imagine.”
“If you know so much, what happened to Morgan?”
“Your brother was apprehended yesterday by the Military Police at Fort Irwin. He was traversing the perimeter on foot when a motorized patrol spotted him. Your brother was arrested on federal property while engaged in the commission of a felony. And he is currently in federal custody.”
“I really don’t know anything.”
“That’s what your brother said. He’s sticking to it. I think you’re smarter than him. I think you’re smart enough to realize that you’re going down in flames. And you’re smart enough to realize that I’m the only person who can help.” He opened a manila folder and scanned the contents. “I’ve reviewed your high school records Duff. You’re an honor student who’s never been in any serious trouble. Armed robberies are not your modus operandi. My guess is—you’re in way over your head. If you want a way out of this mess, I can help.”
“How?”
“I can get you out of here,” he replied. “And I can offer you protection.”
“What’s your deal mister FBI man?”
He opened another manila file and flipped it around so I could see the photo inside. A United States Marine Gunnery Sergeant with battle-station eyes, decked out in his Honor Guard Dress Blues, stood proudly at Parade Rest.
“Do you recognize this man?”
“I may have seen him before.”
“Look closer.” Agent Andrews came around the table and started dealing 3”X5” photos in front of me. They were all various shots of my brother and Lawson. I could barley see them in one photo, because the focus was on me in the background.
“I’m going to ask you a question,” he said. “I won’t ask twice.”
I nodded my head.
“Do you know this man?”
“It’s Lawson. He’s a Marine buddy of my brother. That’s all I know.”
Agent Andrews focused on me with a fire in his eyes and pointed to the photo of Lawson. “This man is no Marine. He was given a dishonorable discharge almost a year ago. Do you know why he was given a DD?”
I nodded my head no and said, “I don’t like Lawson either, but he’s just a burnt-out Marine.” I started to laugh. “His mind is shattered. He’ll go schizoid at the drop of a hat. But he’s no big deal. Seriously! I can handle Lawson.”
“Is that what you think?” Andrews asked. “You have no idea how dangerous this man is. You know why he got drummed out of the Marines?” The contempt in his voice came from some place deep down inside. “Lawson got blind drunk one night, and for no apparent reason, he assaulted a young second lieutenant. He sucker punched the young officer. Startled by the unprovoked attack, and dazed by the blow, the lieutenant stumbled back. That’s when Lawson viciously attacked the defenseless young man with an empty beer bottle. The lieutenant remembers getting hit in the eye with the bottle and falling to the ground. The last thing he remembers is Lawson kicking him in the stomach. He was unconscious, and Lawson was still kicking him, when the police finally showed up. Lawson spent the next six months in the stockade; the lieutenant spent the next six months in the hospital. The officer had extensive internal injuries, and he almost lost an eye. That young Lieutenant is my son Jeffrey. That’s why I first took an interest in J.T. Lawson. I’ve since come to believe he is evil incarnated. If you give me Lawson, I can offer you a new life.”
He pulled another stack of photos out of his case and flipped them one at a time onto the table in front of me. They were all Serpents, in various stages of disarray. In one picture a couple of guys wearing handcuffs were sitting on a curb behind a cop car. One photo showed some poor citizen getting his ass kicked by a half dozen Serpents. There was even a crime scene photo with a dead Serpent, shot through the temple. He had a couple dozen shots of Serpents getting drunk at different biker runs. And there was a picture of T-bone completely shit faced. I started to laugh. He looked like he’d been drunk for a month, and he’d pissed himself.
The agent looked at me like I’d farted at a funeral. “There’s nothing funny about these men. They are the worst kind of criminal mercenaries.”
I replied. “It’s just this guy is so drunk, he wet his pants.”
The agent grabbed the picture of T-bone. “Do you know this man?”
“I think I’ve seen him before.”
“That’s convicted felon Earl “T-bone” Tison. Do you know how he got his nickname?” He didn’t wait for a reply. “A certified public accountant in the San Fernando Valley made the mistake of being in the same city as the Serpents one Sunday afternoon. A dozen or so Serpents, half drunk and high on amphetamines, were hell bent going a hundred miles an hour on Roscoe Blvd., when this poor guy pulls out from a shopping mall. The Serpents were going way too fast and the accountant barely missed them. All the poor guy did was honk his horn and give them the finger. T-bone pulled a u-turn and caught up to the guy at a stoplight. As T-bone came up to the driver’s door, the light changed, and the accountant tried to pull away. T-bone dragged the guy out of his moving station wagon. He beat the guy senseless while his wife and daughter watched. Then he took the accountants middle finger and bit it off. When one of the Serpents asked him how it tasted, he said, ‘Just like a T-bone steak’. That’s when they started calling him T-bone.”
“Okay, so he’s a freak. Tell me something I don’t know.”
“I’ll tell you something very few Americans know,” he said. “And something very few in the Bureau are willing to accept. The Son’s of the Serpent are not what they appear to be. This is not just another ragtag motorcycle club. In the few short months since his dishonorable discharge, J.T. Lawson has created the foundation for a vast and powerful criminal network. The Serpents are only in their embryonic stage. Now is the time to destroy them. If you can help me do that, I’ll get you out of here. If not, I’ve wasted our time.”
I held my breath while I debated the pros and cons. I didn’t like Lawson. He could be cool sometimes, but most of the time he was a prick. And he was dragging Morgan into his bullshit. I didn’t want to be a rat, but I did want to get Morgan and me out of jail. The FBI guy talked a good story, but I really didn’t trust him. Then again, I didn’t want to piss him off. I’ve got to drag this out.
“I need to talk to my brother.”
“I can arrange that. But I need something in return.”
I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and waited for the FBI Agent to tell me, ‘All you got to do is sell your soul. It’s easy—just sign your name in blood’.
The door flew open. A fat guy wearing a sharkskin suit and a pencil-thin necktie walked over and put his fat-sweaty palm on my shoulder. A huge hunk of gold in the shape of a horseshoe, studded with diamonds, was on his ring finger. His pinky finger was dressed in rub
ies, and his wristwatch looked like it cost more than an FBI agent could make in a year. His watch may have come from Tiffany’s in New York, but his accent came from south of the Mason Dixon Line.
“I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced,” he said, extending his pudgy hand. When the man offered his hand, Agent Andrews turned and started picking up the photos. The big man held his hand out for an inordinate amount of time, until the Agent finally rejected his offer with a scornful gaze. He responded by holding his palms up in mock surrender. “No need to get hostile detective.”
“I’m not a detective.”
“Of course not,” he said. “The suit is much too nice. And your photo array is much too extensive to be the work of any run of the mill police detective. If I were to venture a guess, I’d say my client was being interviewed by an agent from The Federal Bureau of Investigation. Without counsel present, I might add.”
Agent Andrews locked his attaché case then handed me a business card. “Call me.” He looked at the big man. “And get a new lawyer.”
The big man’s face contorted into the melodramatic frown of a circus clown. After the Agent walked out the door, the big man started to laugh, and his belly jiggled with delight.
He grabbed the Agent’s business card out my hand and stuck it in his pocket. “It’s not safe to be talking to G-men.” He looked around like someone might be listening. “Certain people might get the wrong idea.” He offered his hand. “Jefferson Trace Thibodeaux, attorney at law, at your service.”
“I’m Duff,” I said, taking hold of his chubby stub.
“Of course you are. Call me Trace young man, all my friends call me Trace.” He pulled a tortoise-shell snuffbox out of his inside coat pocket, dipped a pinch, and blasted it up his nose. He offered me a hit. I passed. And he sat down.
“Are you a lawyer?”
“At your service sir.”
“I don’t have any money.”
He leaned across the table, like he was telling a secret. “We have mutual friends Duff. And friends take care of friends. Don’t they?”
I nodded my head yes. “Do you work for Lawson?”
“The Serpents pay me a retainer. I represent them individually, and as a group.”
“Are you going to get me out of here?”
“We’ll have to wait for arraignment,” he replied. “Your day in court will come sir. I will make arrangements for your release—at that time. Right now we have urgent matters to discuss. I believe you know what I’m referring to. I spoke with Morgan at the Federal Building. He says he put the package in the back of his pickup truck. And you were arrested in the pickup, with a small portion of the contents.”
“I don’t know where the money is. I don’t know where the girl is. You need to get me out of here.”
“What girl?”
Shit—he didn’t know about Harper.
“Does she have the package?”
I said, “Don’t worry about the girl. That’s some wild goose chase the cops are on. You need to worry about getting me out of here.”
He got a wild look in his eye. He came out of his seat pretty fast for a fat man. He clutched my bicep and jerked me out my chair. “Listen to me little man, or I’ll squish you like a bug.”
I leaned into him and brought my knee up hard and fast, aiming for his balls.
He doubled over, dropped back in his chair, and started wheezing like an asthmatic.
I said, “Keep your fucking hands off me fat man. I’m tired of getting slapped around.” I took the snuffbox from his coat pocket and blasted a shot up my nose. “Here’s the deal fat boy. I know where the package is. You’re Goddamn right I know where the package is. You can tell Lawson that he’ll see the package after I talk to Morgan. And that means you have to get me out of this fucking place first.”