"Didn't sound that way on the phone."
"I guess I was still pissed at him for snitching."
"Don't say that, you don't know for certain."
"Why do you think he got it in the throat?"
"Did Lisa tell you about that?"
"I don't talk to that cunt," Deb said.
"Then how did you know about—?" She stopped mid-question. The answer was obvious. Deb knew about Sleaze's throat wound because she had heard about it from another source. She sure hadn't read about it in the paper.
"Look, let's just drop it, all right?" Deb said.
"Fine. If you see a pay phone," Munch said, "Let's stop. I've got to call my PO's recording. I've got a funny feeling that she's going to want to see me."
25
BLACKSTONE AND MOODY spent the morning going over the transcripts of all the conversations that the feds had had since moving into Motel 7. The two cops were seated in Moody's front room. Blackstone was wearing his new suede coat with the sheepskin lining. He'd also bought a pair of cowboy boots and a hat.
Moody explained that his sister-in-law in Portland was a court reporter. He sent her the tapes, which she then transcribed and sent back to him. Moody had pulled out the copies of dialogue that he felt would be of particular interest to Blackstone after the L.A. detective revealed his theory
Three weeks ago, Blackstone learned, the bikers had suspected that there was a leak within their organization. Moody's bugs not only picked up conversations within the motel room, but when the feds played back recordings from their eavesdropping, those could be heard as well. Moody dug through his records until he found the transcript of a recording made two weeks earlier.
"This was when things started to go sour for the feds. Their informant was in danger of being made," he said as he handed the file to Blackstone.
Blackstone opened the manila envelope and found neatly typed pages inside. He began to read. The conversation was between Special Agents Jared Vanowen and Claire Donavon.
J.V: They think they have a snitch.
C.D.: Then let's give them a snitch.
J.V: Who?
C.D.: Someone they already don't like. It will make them more inclined to believe that he's betrayed them.
J.V: Sounds like you already have someone in mind.
[Sounds of paper dropping on desk surface.]
C.D.: They call him Sleaze. Last week he took a quantity of methamphetamine from the lab at the clubhouse.
J.V: Perfect.
Sleaze? Blackstone thought. As in Sleaze John?
The red light in front of one of tape recorders lit up, signaling an incoming message. Moody turned up the volume. "This is your buddy Vanowen's room," he said.
"We're going in tonight, as soon as Tuxford arrives," Jared Vanowen's voice said. "We'll approach from the south. "
They heard papers rustling. Blackstone assumed that it was the sound of a map unfolding.
"The Forest Service just did a three-acre clear-cut," Vanowen's voice continued. "This will make an excellent staging area, with only a hundred yards of woodland left to traverse before we reach our objective."
They heard a chair scraping across the floor.
"Does Bolt know we're going in tonight?" Claire asked.
"Yes. I warned him to keep his nose clean. I reminded him that we 'd already gone way over the line for him."
"How about his people in Los Angeles?"
"All set. They were moved to a safe house last Tuesday They'll be taken to the orientation center later this week—after the bust goes down."
"I hate having to offer these scumbags deals," a new voice chimed in.
"We can 't make our case without him." Claire's tone was authoritative. "Be grateful he was willing to roll over."
"Instant new identity home, and job? They never had it so good."
"Did you tell him I retrieved the packet?" Claire asked.
"Why should he have peace of mind?" Vanowen said. The agents in the room chuckled.
Blackstone and Moody heard doors opening and closing. Another minute passed and then the tape recorder stopped revolving.
Moody opened his desk drawer and removed a cigar box. Inside was a revolver. "You might be needing this," he said.
Blackstone pinned his gold shield onto the lapel of his Jacket, making sure that the badge hung straight and wasn't bunching the suede.
Moody handed him a holster to go with the gun, and Blackstone strapped it around his waist.
Moody's private line rang. He answered it while eyeing the digital readout on the attached box.
"Moody"
"Finally" Munch said. "Is Blackstone there?"
"Just a sec, darlin'." Moody handed Blackstone the phone. "It's her."
"You okay?" Blackstone asked into the phone.
"Just great. I can't talk now. Meet me tonight. I'll walk down the road towards the nickel mine. You know where that is?"
"I'm sure I can find it. Five o'clock?"
"Yeah. But wait for me if I'm late." She hung up. Blackstone relayed the gist of the call to Moody who filled a thermos with coffee and said, "It's going to be a long night."
26
BOOGIE WAS PLAYING in the front yard when they finally got back to Deb's house. "C'mon, Boogie," Munch said, grabbing the boy's hand. "Show me your room."
"Okay" he agreed as they walked out the door, his eyes never leaving his new treasure.
She spent fifteen minutes with him, not knowing what to say. He answered her questions with monosyllabie answers. She showed him how to tell time and he seemed to catch on quickly. He'd always been a bright boy. "You know, Boogie," she said, "if you ever wanted to come visit me or stay with me, you can."
"I know," he said without enthusiasm.
There was so much she wanted to explain to him.
"Some people are idiots," she said.
He giggled at the word.
"And some people are just full of hate. You have to be better than them. Do you understand?"
He tucked his head to one side and scratched the side of his face. "What time is it now?" he asked, holding up the watch.
She saw that it was almost live. "Time for me to take a little walk." She hugged him. "I love you."
He squirmed. "I love you, too," he echoed.
"I'll write you. Would you like that?"
"Sure."
She smoothed hair back from his forehead. "I'm going to take a walk. When I get back, maybe we can play a game."
"Okay" he said, rubbing his ear on his shoulder. She hit the road outside of Deb's house at a jog and didn't slow down until she was past the bend and out of sight. Ten minutes later, a station wagon rolled up next to her and stopped.
Blackstone was sitting in the passenger seat, wearing brand-new Western-style clothing. The fat, balding guy driving introduced himself as Deputy Moody and invited her to get in. She noticed after she was seated that the back doors had no inside handles.
"What did you find out?" Blackstone asked.
" know who put the mouth on Sleaze. It was James. Lisa's James. James was the guy riding shotgun with Sleaze the last time I saw him."
"So you believe this James was involved in John Garillo's murder?"
"He's as guilty as if he pulled the trigger himself. Sleaze was set up. John was a lot of things. But they killed him for something he didn't do."
The two cops exchanged looks, as if an earlier conversation was being continued.
"What?" she asked.
"I believe Darnel Willis shot John Garillo," Blackstone said. "But he wasn't alone. Someone was driving."
"Tux?"
"What makes you say that?" Blackstone asked.
"C'mon, he's in this up to his eyeballs. What's our next step?"
"We are doing nothing. The FBI is going to raid the Joker clubhouse tonight," Blackstone said, "as soon as Tuxford arrives."
"You shouldn't tell her that," Moody said.
"No, I think she's all right. Besides," he sa
id, "she won't be talking to anybody until it's all over."
"I won't?" Munch asked.
"No, we're pulling you out of here. It's too dangerous.
She thought about the clubhouse. From what she had seen, it wouldn't be an easy place to take. Did the FBI know about the trip wires that Deb had set up only hours ago? She sighed. Sleaze was dead and there was I no bringing him back. Whether or not any of her old friends would approve of what she was about to do was irrelevant. That whole line of thinking was part of her I old value system. She was a new person now a self-supporting citizen. How many more months would she waste carrying yesterdays banners?
"I've got to go up there," she said. "There's going to be a baby up there."
"What baby?" Blackstone asked.
"Her name is Asia. She's an orphan. Her mom died a couple months ago. Sleaze was her daddy Tux and James have her with them. They'll all be at the clubhouse tonight."
"What's your connection to this kid?" Blackstone asked.
"I'm her godmother," she said, the lie coming easier with each telling. " promised I'd give her a good home—you know, somewhere safe." She paused, tried to see outside. Her breath fogged the window. "I'm not leaving here without her"
"I don't know how all the laws concerning orphans work," Blackstone said. "That'll have to be handled at a county level."
"That's not good enough," she said.
"What did you have in mind?" Blackstone asked.
"I'll go to the party at the clubhouse tonight. Deb says that the brothers up here know Tux is her ol' man and we'll be safe. I'll grab the baby and split before the bust goes down."
"That's your whole plan?"
"No. There's one other thing we need to do. Sleaze was killed because the Jokers thought he was an FBI informant, right?"
Moody looked out his window but Blackstone looked directly in her eyes. "Right."
"The FBI pays their informants, gives them new identities and lives, right?"
"Yes."
"A slice of that pie should go to Asia. Wouldn't that only be fair?"
"How do you propose to make that happen?" Blackstone asked.
"The same way they operate," she said. "A little bit of trade, a little bit of blackmail."
Moody turned back around. " think I like this girl."
She massaged her throbbing temples. "There's no way they're going to make it up to that clubhouse without shedding a lot of blood. There's trip wires everywhere, I spent the morning helping to set them up. They're connected to illumination grenades. You say the feds are mounting a raid? That means they've set up local headquarters. I think it's time you paid them a visit."
She outlined her plan to them. The two cops listened, their faces breaking into wide smiles. They even added a few touches of their own.
Moody turned the car around. "You better get back to the house," he said to Munch.
She bent her head and clasped her hands in front of her.
"What are you doing now?" Blackstone asked.
"Calling for backup," she said, and went back to her prayers.
Munch, Deb, and Roxanne left for the party right after dinner, just as it was getting dark.
Boogie was dropped off at the neighbors house.
The three women drove for thirty minutes, turning when they reached the dirt road leading to the clubhouse. Munch spotted a few familiar landmarks, like the turtle-shaped rock.
The truck bounced as it maneuvered over deep ruts, exposed boulders, and ancient tree roots. She pictured the damage a car would sustain trying to climb this road. It wouldn't get far before it bent tie rods or a rock punctured its oil pan. They came to the place where they had hiked to the waterfall and shot the deer. She recognized the blind bend up ahead and knew the sentries were close.
''What happens if we meet someone coming down?" Munch asked, noticing no turnouts or shoulders in the narrow road.
"Then somebody will have to put it in reverse," Deb said. She and Roxanne laughed at some inside joke. "Of course, scooters always have the right of way"
They crested the last bend in the road and Munch saw twenty Harleys parked in front of a two-story wooden hunter's lodge. The sound of rock 'n' roll carried from inside the building. Ten-foot-tall stalks of marijuana, some with roots still intact, hung upside down under the protection of the roof's awning.
Deb parked the truck. "Let's go inside and get us some antifreeze."
Roxanne laughed. Munch shivered inside her coat.
'You sure we're going to be safe?"
"What's the matter with you?" Deb asked. "You were the one who always led the charge and it was always me holding back. Now you're a big wussy"
"A lot of things are different," Munch said. She got out of the truck and looked up. The number of stars in the sky stunned her. She'd never seen anything like it before, how they crowded each other and twinkled. Maybe it was the cold that did it. The fog of her breath was thick enough to blow smoke rings.
"Deborah," she said, wanting to share these wonders, "check it out."
But Deb's eyes were on the five or six bikers drinking beers on the front porch of the clubhouse and shouting encouragement to their brethren.
"The hawk is out, " she exclaimed, her Southern accent kicking into high gear as it always seemed to do around a group of men. The men shifted their attention from whatever was going on around the side of the building and watched the three women approach. Munch didn't have a good feeling about their scrutiny She also knew that she didn't have a choice, so she tried to affect an air of indifference. Finally the men returned to what they were doing.
She saw that they had hung the deer from a tree and were halfway through skinning it. Two men stood beside the carcass with short bloody knives. The hide was peeled back to the rump. One of the men tied a slip knot into the thick rope he was holding and fastened it to a loose hunk of bloody inside-out deerskin. He tied the other end of the rope to the bumper of a pickup.
"Let her RIP!" the man with the rope yelled. At his signal, the pickup took off.
"I don't need to see this," Munch said and pulled her friends towards the front door of the building. The minute they entered the clubhouse, bikers swarmed around them. The music was loud and discordant. The overhead lights flickered and she heard someone curse about the generator.
A woman with spiky blonde hair refilled the men's mugs from the keg of beer set up on a rough-hewn wood counter. Smoke hovered under the low ceilings of the front room. A pool table was in use in the center of the floor. Three men sat elbow to elbow on an old sofa against the far wall, drinking beer and watching the game in progress.
"C'mon," Deb said, tugging her arm. "I'll introduce you.
"Great," Munch said under her breath. She nodded to each seated man as Deb recited their names: Bull, Insane Wayne, and Bug-eyed Tom. Munch didn't think she'd have any trouble keeping their monikers straight. "She's looking for James," Deb yelled.
"Oh, yeah, I just remembered," Bug-eyed Tom said. "He told me to take care of you."
'Yeah, right," Deb said, laughing and pushing him away "Watch out for this guy" she told Munch. Bull, the one with the Schlitz logo tattooed to his arm, shoved his mug of beer towards her.
"No thanks," she said.
"Drink," he commanded.
She shot a look at Deb, hoping to get some help, but her friend had already turned away
"What?" he asked, his face growing uglier
"I'm on penicillin," she said. He grunted, satisfied that he hadn't been slighted. Her declaration also bought her some distance from a few of the men within hearing distance.
Deb passed a bottle of Jack Daniels to Roxanne.
Roxanne tilted her head back and poured. "Hey easy with that," Munch said.
Roxanne turned to her with glazed eyes. "What?"
Did I look like that? Munch wondered.
The bottle came around twice more, followed by joints. She passed them along without comment. Insane Wayne cut out lines of meth on a mirror.
Deb went first, taking the fatter lines. Roxanne took her leavings.
Deb took over the woman-with-the-spiky-hair's position by the beer keg, laughing at some joke, rolling her eyes and pretending the guy talking to her was saying something interesting. Roxanne shouted something, but it was lost in the general uproar The men bounced off each others chests like figures in a pinball machine, eyes glassy and beards matted with spilled beer. Munch knew that if she smoked a little and drank some Jack, the scene before her would miraculously transform. The men would get foxy their jokes funny. She would feel cool and superior to all those normies—those citizens—who didn't know how to live. The voices inside her head would quiet, give her a break from their nagging.
Was that what she wanted? A break?
She located a good spot by an empty wall to stand.
"You want to play pool?" Bug-eyed Tom asked.
She accepted gratefully; anything to stay busy and not to be such a sitting target. She snuck a look at her watch. Where was James?
Bug-eyed Tom racked the balls and broke them. Nothing dropped. She took her turn and sank the two-ball. Someone jostled her arm as she was aiming for her next shot. She missed.
"All right, then," her opponent said. He took aim and sank a solid. Maybe he forgot that he was stripes. She said nothing. She wasn't about to utter a sentence to him that included the words "your balls."
Besides, it didn't matter who won this game. She just wanted out of the line of fire.
Bug-eyed Tom leaned into her, bringing his florid complexion and oddly bulging eye close to hers. His breath smelled of garlic and liquor.
"Why don't you and me go somewhere and get all fucked up?" he asked.
"No thanks," she yelled into his ear. The music was deafening. "Not today I can't." She raised her hands in frustration, as if to say that the music was too loud and her story was too long to tell.
He turned from her and made a grab at the woman with the spiky hair. Munch took the opportunity to slip away knowing that if she was out of sight by the time he turned around again, the chances were good he'd forget about her.
She looked for Deb and Roxanne and found them passing a bong. It occurred to her that maybe she had already crossed the line and copped a buzz on all the secondhand pot smoke. She tried to determine if she felt any different. Would she know it if she were high? Probably
No offence Intended - Barbara Seranella Page 20