by Neil Russell
The last thing Fabian expected was a baby’s cry, which was probably why he heard it. Had it been just another random noise, it would never have penetrated his adrenaline-flooded brain. He followed the sound and found Luli’s lifeless body lying on top of the infant. She had given her last breath to protect a child she’d known only a few hours. He wished he could have been as honorable, but the first word that came out of his mouth was, “Shit.”
The fire found Fabian again and was pouring out of every doorway and racing along the deck. He had no time to consider options. He tucked the baby as tightly against his chest as possible, leveraged himself over the rail with his remaining hand, and leaped as far from impending death as he could. He remembered thinking that this was the second time today he’d left a ship this way and being none too happy about it. Then he hit the water, and the pain in his leg shot through every nerve in his body.
When he came up, he was covered in thick, black goo. The Bay’s oil tanks had ruptured, and an inky blob was roiling from her in a great underwater cloud. The bombs were raining down again, and the ship had become nothing more than a smoking target. Fabian saw the PT. It had broken loose and was bobbing on the surface not more than fifty yards away. He’d have to swim for it with one arm, but maybe there was a chance.
And then came an explosion, a white flash, and the sea caught fire.
* * * *
It was well past sundown, and there were still isolated patches of oil burning. The Bay had been gone for hours, sliding into the deep with a series of protesting bellows followed by an eerie silence. Fabian clung to the waterlogged seat cushion of a Hellcat fighter and remembered once asking a pilot how long they floated. The guy had laughed. “Fuckin’ thing don’t even pad my ass. How much time you figure the low bidder spent worryin’ about sailin’ it? “
The baby hadn’t cried since they’d jumped. She was on her back on the cushion, shivering as she lay in water that licked at her ears, but she was absolutely quiet. He didn’t want her to die, but he had to fight being angry that he had to worry about her. Truth was, though, if she hadn’t been there, he might have already surrendered. He’d left exhaustion in his rearview mirror hours ago. The only reason he knew he wasn’t dead was because he was hungry, which, all things considered, seemed ludicrous.
In the aftermath of the inferno, he had looked for a lifeboat or at least something larger to climb onto, but there was little debris left. What the carrier hadn‘t taken with her, the flames had consumed. He’d called out for survivors until he realized he was wasting energy looking for something he wasn’t going to find.
The backs of his hands were burned, but his cotton shirt had protected his arms. He couldn’t see his face, but when he’d tried to wipe water out of his eyes, a piece of his forehead had come off. Since then, he’d kept his hands away. The baby had been burned too, but there was so much oil on her, he couldn’t tell how badly, and after his experience with his forehead, he didn‘t want to find out.
Earlier, a six-foot hammerhead had bumped him a couple of times but taken off when he jabbed it with his knife. The shark had seemed more curious than aggressive, and he suspected the still-foul water was interfering with its senses. Just in case, he’d left the knife on the cushion and tried not to think about what else might be lurking in the ebony depths.
He dozed off once, coming out of it only when his face dropped in the water. He was aware that the time was fast approaching when that wouldn’t be enough, so he decided to try singing. He chose “One for My Baby,” mostly because Tokyo Rose had been playing the hell out of the Fred Astaire hit recently, and he knew the words.
Infants weren’t supposed to be able to turn their heads, but as he sang, he suddenly noticed the little girl was looking into his eyes. When he finished, he said to her, “You know, little lady, no one should be running around without a name. Since you seemed to like his song, how about for the moment we call you Astaire. I think that’s got some real pizzazz, and it beats the heck out of Fred. Besides, you look like you might be a dancer.”
He touched the baby’s cheek, and for a moment, he thought she looked very scared. Fabian didn’t really have the energy to sing another song, but he remembered an incident back on the force when a Louis Armstrong song had made the difference in a man’s life. And if anyone needed a difference made right now, it was the two of them. So he cleared what was left of his throat and gave “When the Saints Go Marching In” all he had. Astaire seemed to like it too, and for a moment, he lost himself in the music.
* * * *
Fabian was lolling half-in, half-out of consciousness. The baby was nearly off the cushion, and as hard as he tried, he could no longer make his fingers work to pull her back. Then he saw the fin. No, that was wrong. There were several. All of them thicker than the hammerhead’s. He reached for his knife, but it was gone, having slipped away when he wasn‘t looking. He wouldn’t have been able to hold it anyway.
Something hard sideswiped his leg, and the turbulence it created nearly pulled him under. The next one was right behind, and it banged into him harder. He kicked at it, but he had long since lost all feeling in his legs, and the only thing he succeeding in doing was to lose his grip on the cushion and have to use what strength he had left to fight his way back to it. Two more hits came simultaneously, and he knew the end was here. He was actually grateful.
Suddenly, there was a massive displacement of water, and the ocean seemed to rise beneath him. Fabian knew that dying people sometimes imagine things that help them through to the other side, and he wondered why, after all of this, he couldn’t have at least conjured up something warm and comforting. Maybe that hot shower.
Then an ear splitting roar of air followed by a burst of salt spray hit him with the force of a shotgun blast, and a dark shape began to emerge from the depths. It was too big to be a shark. Too big even for a whale, but he was in no condition to really know.
His eyes began to close for the final time, and he didn’t even try to keep them open. He took Astaire’s hand in his and rushed into the darkness... just as the USS Parrotfish’s conning tower broke the surface.
* * * *
20
Mad Greeks and Old Friends
Few cities are as intertwined as Los Angeles and Las Vegas. Or as steeped in each other’s myths and legends. LA is why there is a Vegas. A Beverly-Hills-obsessed mobster, Bugsy Siegel, invented it; a Central Valley boxer turned pilot, Kirk Kerkorian, started an airline to service it; the wealthiest Californian of his time, Howard Hughes, turned it corporate; and Hollywood provided the entertainment and high rollers to pay for everything. It’s a six-decade-long love affair that grows new tentacles every year.
Four hundred times a day, a commercial flight leaves SoCal for McCarran. Another twelve hundred private planes join the procession, and 24/7/365, the I-15 is an endless ribbon of seventy-mile-per-hour steel. And in an aside to my fellow Californians up the coast, nobody screams like a scalded hamster if you call it Vegas.
Birdy and I were both hungry, so before descending the long grade into Nevada, we hit the Mad Greek’s place in Baker, the last outpost in the Golden State. We sat on the patio next to a tableful of long-distance truckers who ate, talked, smoked, flexed their biceps and admired Birdy—all at the same time. It was nice to see that not every male in America has gone emo.
While Birdy had tried on clothes at Sears, I’d wandered around the Victorville Mall until I found a nail salon. Like most in SoCal, it was Vietnamese-owned. In this case by Nhu Pham, a twentysomething, very tightly dressed young lady in heels so high every passing XY chromosome over the age of twelve made it a point to check out the polish display in the window.
All the seats were occupied, and I got the twice-over by manicurists and customers alike. They needn’t have worried. I had no intention of staying any longer than necessary. To make sure, Nhu walked me out into the concourse, her strong accent anything but friendly. “No men,” she said tightly. “You gay, you go to Riki�
��s downtown.”
“I just want to ask you a question.”
“I no date you. Boyfriend have big gun.”
This was going bad before it even got started. “Cathedral of the Testaments,” I finally got out.
If I thought that would slow her down, I was mistaken. “I Catholic,” she hissed.
“I’m not recruiting. I just want to know if any Vietnamese go there?”
“You fuckin’ crazy? That place full of fuckin’ Chinese.”
“How about other Asians? Koreans, maybe?”
“Where the fuck you go to school?” Then she turned on a very precarious heel and strode back into her shop, while the crowd that had gathered smiled and shook their heads at the dummy she left behind.
I told the story to Birdy as we shoved gyros into our faces. She thought it was hysterical, of course. Why is it when a man gets humiliated, there’s dancing in the streets ... but when it’s a woman, men have to bite their tongues and buy her something expensive, or it gets logged into the Big Book of Forever?
While I pondered the imponderable, Birdy went to the ladies’ room, and I wandered out to the truck to make a few calls. Part of me wanted to call Wes Crowe and gauge his reaction when I told him where he could find Cheater. Problem was he would already suspect his “brother” was dead and be ready for the question. He was also a cop, and having me connected to the body in any way would allow him to cloud the issue enough to confuse any prosecutor. Besides, neither Cheater nor Donnie was going anywhere, so I could come back to them later.
Instead, my first call was to Mallory. “You can send the cavalry home,” I said.
“Not just yet. Some of the guys are bringing their families over for a swim.”
The Beverly Hills PD and I have a very good relationship, but this had all the earmarks of a Mallory-extravaganza with a bill to match. “How many is ‘some’?”
“Well, you can’t very well offer something like that to just the few who were up here. What kind of neighbor are you? Besides, it’s a big pool.”
So he’d opened it up to the whole department. My guess, the fire guys too. “And naturally, there’ll be food.”
“Naturally.”
I didn’t want to hear any more. It was going to happen no matter what I said, and any suggestions I had for keeping costs down would not only be ignored but countered. “I don’t know when I’ll be home, but I’ll give you a heads-up.”
“Don’t hurry. I’m just getting into that rack of Travis McGee in the library. By the way, you had two calls. A Ms. Huston and a Ms. Marisol Rivera-Marquez. From the sound of both, your unparalleled charm is still very much in evidence.”
No man is a hero to his valet. “Did Ms. Huston happen to mention she was with the FBI?”
“Only six or seven times. Along with a head count of our current guests. Seems she’s anxious enough to get her hands on you that she felt the need to threaten my immigration status. I told her to put a rush on it. The beatings are intolerable.”
Apparently, Francesca wasn’t getting much Beverly Hills love anywhere, but I wasn’t surprised she had someone watching the house. “Did Marisol leave a message?”
“Oh, that she did. My Spanish isn’t what it used to be, but it went something like, ‘Tell Mr. Black I am now without pain, but I shall never again be without disgrace.’ If you’ll forgive me for saying so, sir, you have outdone even my low expectations.”
Well, she hadn’t cut me off forever, but I had a lot of work to do to fix a relationship that wasn’t even a relationship, which right after neurosurgery is my weakest suit. But Ms. Rivera-Marquez would be getting a few more bullfights under her belt before I had time to try to make things right. And, as damaged as she was, I had my own issues. “Enjoy your pool party,” I said to Mallory.
“The officers really like your cigars.”
I didn’t think he needed a good-bye. My next call was to Jake. “How well do you know Markus Kingdom?”
“He’s a Grade-A schmuck.”
“Unpaid bill or stolen girlfriend?”
“Fuck you.”
Jake didn’t get that emotional about money. “Hold the thought. Maybe you can get even. Way back when, he was a guest of the G. Terminal Island. Think you can come up with why?”
“Markus Kingdom had his asshole widened? There is a God.” Glee over the tribulations of others is one of Jake’s many flaws. As he was hanging up, I heard him yell, “Stella, get in here.”
My last call was to Freddie to check on Roxy’s new job. Uncharacteristically, he skipped past the usual Freddie bullshit and got to the point. “Your girl’s already been to the Pentagon to fill out the paperwork. I got her assigned to carrier group intel, which will bump her a pay grade. She’ll meet so many flyboys, she’ll have ice down her snatch.”
I ignored his last remark, which is the only rebuke Freddie can’t argue with. “When does she start?”
“Tomorrow, and I’m supposed to tell you she doesn’t want a going-away party.”
I couldn’t fault her for that. “Thanks, I appreciate the hustle.”
“We’ll discuss a bonus later.”
“Only if I can borrow your car again.” Freddie’s a material guy, but his love affair with that Bentley borders on the unbalanced. My comment, even in jest, threw him off.
“Where were we?”
“Department 11.”
“Murders.”
“Murders? That’s it?”
“Did I say that was it?”
“If I’m paying a quarter of a mil for a slow dance, skip it, and I’ll call somebody else.”
“Francesca Huston heads what they call the Extrinsic Homicide Unit. That name is classified, so the geniuses gave it Department 11.”
“Extrinsic. If I remember my Sunday crossword, that means extraneous.”
“Tangential is closer. Ninety-eight percent of murders, everybody knows who did it and why. It might take a while to nail the perp, but there’s no mystery. Another 1 percent are serial killers, and most of the rest are ‘who cares.’ Mob hits, heroin cut with rat poison, a prostitute in a Dumpster, that kind of shit. But there are a few that don’t fit. Wildcases, they call them, which is pretty creative for the FBI.”
“What’s a few?”
“A hundred a year . . . less. Two categories. First is Joe the Plumber. Never been out of Newark. Wife, kid, current with his bills. No record. Biggest vice is he cheats at bowling. One day, he disappears. A month later, he washes up in Galveston Bay. Didn’t have a boat, didn’t know anybody in Texas, and the last time he traveled was never.”
I thought about the Vegas taxi driver. “What’s the other category?”
“Topeka. Sunday afternoon open house. Nice neighborhood. Owners are retired schoolteachers living in Sun City. The Realtor shows up early to put out cookies, and there’s a guy with a bullet hole in his forehead sitting in the family room Barcalounger—naked. Clothes are nowhere to be found, but he’s wearing an expensive watch and a wedding band. No prints in the system and no missing person report that matches. Oh, and did I mention that his lower torso is all torn up, and his pecker is gone. The cops run his face on TV, and nobody calls.
“In the old days, Joe gets sent home with condolences, and Mr. Barcalounger gets buried in potter’s field. Both M.E. reports hit the archives. Over and out, Captain Kirk.”
“When were the old days?”
“Before 1995. April 19, to be exact.”
I thought for a moment. “McVeigh. Oklahoma City.”
“Six years from explosion to execution. It took longer to indict Gotti. But while the Feds were high-fiving each other, some out-of-the-box thinker pissed in the champagne. ‘Hey, guys, maybe you haven’t noticed, but it’s Oswald all over again.’”
He’d lost me, and I said so.
I heard Freddie sigh, but I knew he was enjoying being the smartest guy in the room. “Think about it, Rail. Disaffected ex-military. Weapons expertise. America the Oppressor writings. Unexplaine
d travels. Appearances at extremist events. Shadowy acquaintances. And for the truly paranoid, both men confronted an hour after their event by a lone cop, who apparently doesn’t make the connection to the big picture. The difference: Even though he’s already killed a shit-ton of people, supposedly for reasons extending all the way back to Thomas Jefferson, and he’s got the drop on this Oklahoma Smokey, unlike Oswald, McVeigh doesn’t shoot.”
I felt my face flush at the same time my blood ran cold. I’d never thought about it before, but now, it stuck out like a neon sign. My JFK-consumed friend, Benny Joe Willis, would have immediately changed neon sign to blueprint. “And the career jockeys got instant nosebleeds.”
“You’re a pretty quick study for a rich guy. They probably wanted to ignore it, but nobody, was going to chance the analyst’s report ending up in the New York Times, so to pad the file, the task force pulled every unsolved homicide in the preceding two years. Bank jobs too, something no one had looked at after Dallas.”