by Neil Russell
Fabian face was grim. “It also means we were out of position when we put those boats in the water, and we’re even farther out now.” He took a deep breath. “Somebody needs to wake the captain?”
* * * *
As two sailors adjusted his life vest, and he strapped on the Colt .45 he hadn’t fired since basic training, Fabian couldn’t see the captain’s launch riding the light chop four stories below. He only knew it was there because Pags had to keep gunning the engine so it wouldn’t stall. Only a select few—not including Fabian—knew why the Bay and two destroyers had broken off from fleet formation five days ago and begun steaming northwest. Then, sometime during the third night, the destroyers had dropped away, and at daybreak, the Bay was alone.
As the ultimate projection of American power, aircraft carriers are the centerpiece of all naval strategy, and the first tenet of any mission is to protect them. They never operate alone—ever. They are far too precious and vulnerable. So everyone aboard knew that whatever was happening was beyond dangerous. Not surprisingly, betting pools had sprung up in every department about their ultimate destination. And none of the favorites was comforting.
An hour earlier, Captain Hackin and the unsmiling Marine commanding officer, Col. A. K. Jackson, had brought Fabian and Pags into the information loop. Months before, two stateside newspapers had broken the story of the massive airlift taking place from bases in India as they supplied Chiang Kai-shek’s forces in China. However, the New York Times and Chicago Tribune were specifically not circulated to combat units, so no one aboard the Bay had heard of it.
The two junior officers now learned that army and civilian pilots had been “Flying the Hump”—the Himalayas— since April, 1942, keeping Chiang in the war and holding down thousands of Japanese troops that might otherwise be thrown against the Allies. Between the horrific mountain weather and the Zeros that preyed on the slow, unescorted transports, the Hump was as deadly a piece of airspace as existed, and hundreds of aircraft had been lost.
The Bay was being diverted to pick up seven pilots who had survived going down and managed to evade capture. A network of missionaries had rescued them, consolidated them and gotten word out that eventually reached Washington.
With the Japanese on the run everywhere, there was no military imperative for risking critical assets to collect a handful of men. But at the White House, the opportunity to deliver the war-weary American public a Christmas feelgood story was too good to pass up. So with no advance planning and no verifiable intelligence, a medical team had been dispatched aboard a submarine, the USS Parrotfish, to collect them. The sub, however, had missed three position checks and was presumed lost. So in the time-honored tradition of bureaucracies everywhere, stupidity gave way to insanity, and someone—without consulting the navy— substituted the Resurrection Bay.
“So how do we find these pilots? “ Pags asked.
“Just get there. If they’re alive, somebody will find you,” said Hackin. “A guy they call Big Jim Rackmann is running the operation, and they tell me he’s one tough son of a bitch.”
Pags raised an eyebrow. “There you go, a bad-ass missionary.”
“No offense, sir,” said Fabian, “but this has all the makings of a cluster fuck.”
Hackin’s silence was agreement enough. Having your ship shot out from under you in battle was every captain’s nightmare, but at least it was honorable. Losing one on a bullshit mission in some godforsaken stretch of water, likely without firing a round, was the dignity equivalent of having your wife leave you for another woman.
He looked at his two men, lingering on Fabian. “You want to reconsider, Cañada, you won’t get an argument. I never could figure out what a detective was doing out here anyway. I thought cops got automatic deferments.”
Fabian smiled. “The recruiter said I’d be able to work on my tan.”
It wasn’t a particularly funny line, but everyone welcomed the laugh.
The captain turned to Pags. “What about you, Lieutenant? You got a problem taking orders from an ensign? “
“Hell, Captain, who cares about rank? I’m not worth a good goddamn unless I’m drivin’ somethin’ fast, and I wouldn’t miss scarin’ the hell out of LA’s Finest here for anything less than a case of beer and a hooker. Make that two hookers and a suite at the Royal Hawaiian.”
“We’ll sit an extra hour. You’re not back by then . . . I’m sorry.”
Colonel Jackson regarded the two officers. “Gentlemen, if you have to make tough choices about who to bring back, I assure you my men won’t cause any problems.”
Pags looked at Jackson. “Shit, Colonel, don’t say that. The major leadin’ them owes me two hundred bucks.”
Now, as the sailor holding the bowline threw the loose end to Fabian, and the launch accelerated away from the carrier, Pags shouted over the unmuffled inboard. “Hey, partner, aren’t you proud of me for catchin’ that fuckin’ mistake? I’m really gettin’ this navigation shit down.”
“Well, Magellan, there’s a whole continent out there somewhere, let’s see if you can hit it.”
* * * *
As it turned out, what they hit was a lot smaller.
Shortly after their departure, an easterly breeze kicked up a layer of fog that blocked the stars and reduced an already impossibly dark night to a thick, wet gauze with zero visibility. They could barely see each other, but to cut power meant precious time off a schedule that didn’t have any slack. So with Fabian fighting to see even an inch ahead and Pags grinning like a sixteen-year-old at a burlesque show, they kept the throttle full open.
The gargantuan, ghostly hull draped with steel cables loomed up out of the mist and penetrated both men’s consciousness at almost exactly the same time. Fabian braced himself for the collision while Pags jammed the engine into reverse and threw the rudder full to port. The launch, a wooden, twenty-five-foot Chris-Craft hardtop, scraped along the mammoth vessel’s side with a sickening, grinding sound, and Fabian waited for one of the cables to rip it open like a cardboard box. Miraculously, none did, and moments later, they came to a full stop.
They held their breath, waiting for the inevitable shouts and lights, but silence once again descended around them. Fabian craned his neck and squinted, but whatever was up there was swathed in the impenetrable fog.
“Fuckin’-A,” Pags shouted, “that’s what you get when you ride with Mr. Lucky. Eight jillion boats in China, and I hit the empty one.” He brought the engine up again, and as they neared the large ship’s bow, they passed under an anchor chain. The white lettering beneath the hawsehole could be read through the gloom. USS Tango.
Fabian felt a chill run down his spine. He’d seen this ship at Midway. An Andromeda class attack cargo ship heading out as they were heading in. He especially remembered her skipper, standing on the bridge barking orders wearing a baseball cap and ratty denim shirt with the sleeves torn off. That, plus the guy’s full red beard weren’t like any captain Fabian had seen before, and he’d asked Bennett about it.
“If somebody tried to put me on a fuckin’ AKA, I’d shoot myself,” Bennett had said. “The only thing ‘attack’ about them is the attack of the runs the crew gets when they weigh anchor. Just enough guns to piss off the Japs. The brass knows it too, so they cut them some slack. But you gotta admire thai red-haired motherfucker for taking it to the limit.”
At nearly five hundred feet and equal part cranes, booms and gantries—with a single deck cannon and a few .20-caliber machine guns thrown in—Andromedas usually looked like a construction zone in a bad neighborhood. Tonight, though, this one was a cadaver.
“What the fuck?” said Pags. “It’s one of ours.”
“I think that’s past tense. Looks like she’s a sub barrier now with probably forty or fifty mines strung underneath. That’s what those cables are. Lucky for us, nobody anticipated a crazy wop and his half-wit sidekick ramming into her side.”
“I owe it all to clean living and a fast outfield.”
>
Pags pushed the launch back up to the maximum. Fabian turned and looked back at the Tango. She was invisible again, but he thought for a moment he saw a faint pinprick of light. And then it was gone.
Ten minutes later, Pags elbowed him. “Look, even the goddamn fog is givin’ us a break.” He was right. Several faint glows could be seen through the mist, then more, until the shore and hills of the Pearl River were dotted with lights. And finally, lanterns, thousands of them, strung along the decks of houseboats, junks, trawlers, gently dancing in the breeze. From somewhere, music drifted across the water as clearly as if they’d been listening to a radio.
Fabian took in the scene. “Well, against all odds, we’re right where we‘re supposed to be.”
“I’ll take that as a thanks. Whatever happened to blackouts?”
“The war’s lost, so the party’s on.”
“Boy, what I wouldn’t give for a couple of hours ashore. Think about it. Guys as handsome as us with a pocketful of Uncle Sammy Bucks and big, stiff American dicks.”
“You still got a tent in your pants on the way back, I’ll drop you off. In the meantime, keep an eye out for anything Japanese. They’ll be the ones trying to kill us.”
Off the starboard side, Fabian saw a whirlpool, small but nonetheless disconcerting. “Hackin said the river’s unpredictable. Sandbars where there shouldn’t be. We’re shallow enough to ride over almost anything, but let’s not take the chance.”
Pags backed the throttles down halfway, then crossed his hands behind his head and sat back. The water was mostly calm, the ride smooth. “I been meanin’ to ask you, partner, what kinda name is Cañada anyway?”
“It’s not really CAN-ah-dah, it’s supposed to be Can-YAH-dah. There’s a tilde over the N, and the accent’s on the second syllable. My grandfather got tired of fighting an uphill battle. Me, I’m an asshole. I stuck with the original. I like to make people uncomfortable.”
“Shit, we’re livin’ the same story. There’s no hard G in LaPaglia, but try tellin’ that to the navy. What’ll your grandpop do? “
“Started with a donkey cart picking up scrap metal. Now, Cañada Salvage’s got plants up and down the coast. People think we’re from Montreal. My grandfather just smiles. Might not have happened the other way.”
“Scrap metal? Where I come from, you gotta be a Jew to be in that racket. But you’re some kinda spic, right?”
“The best kind. Mexican.”
“And a cop instead of workin’ for the family. That spells outcast.”
Fabian’s smile was tight. “Outcast doesn’t begin to cover it. You?”
“Luca Sr. owns a shithouse full of nightclubs. A real stud around Manhattan. Day I was born, he started groomin’ me to take over. Then I discovered jazz, and there went servin’ booze. Played piano behind Sinatra once, but the old man got me blackballed at the mob joints, expectin’ me to come crawlin’ back. Didn’t happen. Went to Harlem and jammed with the best. After this shit’s over, I’m headin’ west. Gonna try the movies. Music’s the only thing I was ever really good at.”
“Don’t forget navigation. You play Armstrong ? I can’t get enough of his stuff.”
“You kiddin’? I do an All of Me’ that’ll get you laid stan-din’ at the bar.”
Half an hour later, the harbor was behind them, and they were once again enveloped in darkness. The banks of the river were invisible again, but with the fog gone, the stars reflected off the water and turned it into a lighted highway.
* * * *
9
White Coats and Fat Cats
Driving toward Westwood in D. D. Shoulders’s red Woodie to see Manarca, I didn’t feel any better, but I didn’t feel any worse either. I dialed Mallory. “How are things with Beverly Hills Finest?”
“There’s a USC game on, and they’re into the Mid’s.”
Having Mallory around is like living with the Robb Report. Only instead of six-hundred-thousand-dollar watches and million-dollar Phaetons, he’s a shamus of food. One of his finds is a pasta sauce there are no words for. Mid’s. I put it on anything that lies still.
There aren’t any words for the price either. Diamonds are cheaper. Mallory heats up big bowls of the stuff and sets them out with loaves of Italian bread. Tear off a hunk and have at it. Nobody ever complains there isn’t any guacamole.
I could picture my kitchen. What’s enough food for a cop? Just a little more than he ever gets. “I suppose it’s too much to hope that you held some back for the guy who pays the rent,” I said.
“Since he’s the same guy who put my life in danger, he doesn’t get as much consideration as the guys with the guns.” Then he added, “A Mr. Bronston called. Said something about a bullfighter going back to Spain and studios canceling bids. When I asked him to be more forthcoming, he yelled, ‘Here’s forthcoming, motherfucker . . . I’m going to kill your boss.’”
“He calls back, tell him to take a number behind Francesca Huston.”
“I won’t ask.”
There are two groups that put sweat on the upper lips of law enforcement. One might think that would include defense attorneys, but most cops don’t even break stride dancing through a cross-examination. Judges are another matter. They know that no investigation or prosecution ever goes by the book, and the only reason we’re not knee deep in felons is because corners get cut and bullshit gets canonized. But every now and then, some Baron in Black gets bored or pissed or has a moment of constitutional conscience, stops the band and starts asking real questions. And you can lie to your boss, your wife, your girlfriend, internal affairs, even your priest, but fuck with a judge, and you better have a very rich aunt and a retirement cabin on Machu Picchu.
The second group is doctors. Cops are taught early on that when a white coat shows up—get the hell out of the way. Half the departments in America are sitting on more litigation liability than their towns are worth, and nothing gets a jury’s mouth watering like a cop fumbling out an explanation about why the guy in the wheelchair won’t be enjoying lap dances anymore because John Law slowed down the medics.
I don’t give money to large institutions. But I do help individuals, and over the years, Dr. Austin Stillwell hasn’t been bashful about asking. As Chief of Surgery at UCLA, where they treat anybody who shows up, he sees more than his share of horror stories. I’m glad to have been able to ease a few. So when he and I arrived at Manarca’s room, the uniform on duty didn’t blink. He actually held the door.
The curtains around the first bed were pulled. Somebody was behind them, which I thought was strange considering the security, but if they were short of beds, the hospital would do what they had to do, and the cops would just have to adjust. Manarca was next to the window. His skin was a little wan, and there were tubes and wires running off in all directions, but aside from a couple of whorls of gauze around his throat, he didn’t look too much the worse for wear. He gave me the finger, which is always a good sign.
Our positions had been reversed when we first met, and I remembered how much I hated being down. People used to being on the move make difficult patients. Manarca got the doc’s attention and emphatically pointed toward the other side of the bed.
Stillwell shook his head no. “He wants the catheter out,” he said to me. Turning back to the detective, he offered some encouragement. “Tomorrow, maybe.”
I promised to stay only a few minutes, and Stillwell left. I pulled a metal chair next to the bed and sat. “When you’re up to it, I’ll let you take a poke at me for dragging you out to Century City.”
Manarca held up two fingers.
“You got it, two pokes. Any idea who cut you?”
He hesitated, then gestured to a pad and pen on the night-stand. I handed them to him, and he scribbled a few lines. Most cops can’t read their own notes when they get cold, but Manarca wrote in a swirling, elegant script that was almost feminine.
Stepped in some shit. Been talkin’ to the grand jury.
Sooner or later,
it was gonna get out.
“Anything I can do to help?”
He shook his head no and took the pad back.
Insider’s game. My fault all the way.
Jake had been right, it was a cop thing. Fortunately for Dion, whoever he was ratting out didn’t want to have to answer for a body too, so they sent a wakeup call first.
But that wasn’t why I was there. Starting at the Brando house, I gave the detective a summary, leaving out my session with Ms. Huston. When I finished, he stared out the window.
“You and Chuck have any dealings?” I asked.
About six months ago, we crossed on a case.
Custody fight turned into a homicide.
The usual shit: lose in court, shoot your old lady.
It was my ticket, but Chuck showed up in the middle.
“He tell you why?”