Griffin pierced Barry with his steel blue eyes.
“Yeah, when you guys got shopped for drugs, you made it look edgy and smart, even getting caught became a trend, so all the little mouths were open, tongues out, gimme some of that acid, let’s all drift away, stop crying about Kennedy, quit fretting about Vietnam, blanking out the nightmares, what a cruel scam, you bought the whole trip, and your followers went with you, into the seventies, lipstick and eye shadow, glitz and sham, rock and roll, free and easy sex, backstage glam. You got maneuvered out of your right to say no to the way your world was being organized. None of you got into parliament, or congress, you let the straights do that for you.”
“The career professionals, they’re here, they’re not going away and they get more powerful with every administration. Watch ’em. They were getting into position in the sixties and seventies while you were all prancing around feeling sorry for yourselves and sucking up cocaine. Millions of you, getting hung up with consuming all the goodies, dumb movies, crass TV, violence for fun, the sports racket, victims of your own lazy greed. All being manipulated into mass stupidity, not even bothering to vote. You lot are wankers, your word, man, suits you perfectly.” Griffin let it sink in with a pause, noting that Barry was wilting under attack.
“Well, maybe not all of you. John Lennon tried hard enough, but he got turned into a sideshow, there’s so many ways of neutralizing the troublemakers, apart from shooting them. Then they shoot anyway, there’s too much paperwork piling up, agents have other suckers to watch. Yeah, like me, good old Lennie, The Acid King, His Highness King Leo, fucking con man for the shop, only the best drugs for the stars, who loved me. It was a brief and glorious time, I was a free spirit, so they locked me up. Eight years of it, witness protection they called it, like living in a cage.”
“You’re still living in a cage.”
“Compared to what? Freedom? Compared to who, you, Barry?”
“Fuck you,” he said, but there was no energy in his words.
“Here,” said Griffin. “For old time’s sake.”
Slowly he reached into his pocket and brought out a pipe, filled it with pot from a small can, and tamped it down before passing it across to Barry with a lighter in one smooth gesture.
“You need to relax.”
“I don’t do that shit anymore.”
“That’s your problem, Barry. Solve it. Take one hit. You remember how to do that.”
Barry lit the pipe and sucked in a tentative mouthful. He held his breath for a long time, watching Griffin watching him.
Slowly letting go he croaked, “You’re a crazy motherfucker, Leo, you really believe all that stuff.”
“Hell no, just made it up.”
He watched Barry carefully, seeing that in spite of the smoke he was still firmly holding the gun in a ready position, although his arm was resting now across his knees.
“Oh, you mustn’t leave without looking at an old photograph. It’s on the wall behind you.”
Barry smirked. “I’m not leaving until I’ve done you.”
“Sure, man, I’ll be dead but at least you’ll know where the photograph is. Interesting to see how you’ve completely lost your looks, but I still recognized you immediately. Did you keep your voice, I hope? You could sing, that’s a sure thing, better than your friend, but you knew that, it made you angry.”
Barry was starting to lose his composure, the gun weaving in his hand.
“Shut up, Leo.”
The moment was shattered by the sound of thumping at the door. Then Pete Stebbings’ voice, calling out for Griffin to let him in.
In one of three cars parked at strategic locations around the building, a plainclothes cop was barking into the radio.
“Agent Cortez?”
“Right here.”
“That unknown who entered the suspect’s property. We identified him. Barry Turnbull, an Englishman, suspect knows him…”
“What? How’d you know that?”
“Seems the rabbi we were tracking must be the suspect. He’s inside too.”
“What? You’re not making sense. What are you seeing?”
“A man and a woman. Going in.”
“I’m on my way.”
CHAPTER 60
Griffin rose carefully, holding his arms up to Barry.
“Hold it now, Barry. We have to let them in, don’t we?”
He backed towards the door, opened it and stood aside to let Pete in. Ann followed and closed the door. She stood beside Pete, who spoke calmly.
“Okay, Barry, I admit it’s a great idea and you’ve been thinking about it for years, but I suggest you give it some more thought, like, prison again? Eh? And what about Carol, she’s waiting for my call to tell her that her beloved Barry is alive and well and not doing something stupid.”
Equally calm, Griffin stepped behind Ann and ushered her into the main area of the tiny space. He came close to the door, and Barry reacted immediately, lifting the gun and pointing it with a very steady hand.
“You’re not going anywhere, mate. Get away from that door.”
“Just checking. We don’t want anyone walking in, do we?”
Griffin gave the door a solid push and bolted it with a piece of wood. But he didn’t move too far. Close enough now to the rifle hooked overhead, invisible in the dark corner above the door. Griffin spread his arms in a benevolent gesture.
“This is historic. The three of us together again, honoring my little hovel in apocalyptic L.A. The last time was in an English country manor when the world was prosperous and inspiring.”
“Yeah,” snarled Barry, “I remember.”
“So why don’t we all take a stroll round the corner and have a drink together. I don’t have much of a bar here.”
“Yeah, we can discuss our karma,” Barry snarled.
“Exactly what I had in mind. We have a bond now. Sudden death by bullets is beneath us. We have a higher call. Look at how much our world has changed, and we’ve all survived it.”
“What do you think I am, bloody stupid? Or an infant?”
“No, Barry, I’m just trying to stop you killing me.”
“Well, you can spin out the time as much as you like, but I’m gonna do it anyway.”
Inside the van where the surveillance tape crackled, Cortez was quietly cursing himself. He felt almost out of his depth. In all his years of service he’d never encountered anything like this. Perhaps it was because these people were not conventional criminals. That maniac Rivkin had led him a dance all day, he clenched his teeth as he realized that one of those rabbis he’d encountered had been him, the bastard. He must have stared straight into his face.
On top of that, a woman had clearly outsmarted him. Thanks to the cop on watch outside Ann’s apartment, he knew that Pete Stebbings had been in there with her for hours. Now here was someone called Barry, who was carrying a weapon.
He’d considered blocking off the exit to the alley but thought better of it. He desperately wanted to rush the place with all his men, guns blazing, but that wasn’t the answer either. So he sat in this shabby corner of a city he was getting to hate, listening to the electronic surveillance sounds of a bunch of lunatics.
***
Griffin was using the time to scan around for hidden mics or cameras. He was sure the Feds had rigged up something, and he knew they must be outside there choking over what they were hearing.
Without making any sudden moves, he sauntered over to his sound system and pulled out an audio tape from a box.
“It seems a good moment to play you something which we’ll all enjoy,” he said, punching in the cassette. Out came an old blues song which Pete and Barry had recorded together many years before, a live club performance, and obviously a pirate tape.
“Where’ja get that?” asked Pete.
“See what I mean, Barry?” Griffin said. “That was 1965. I was there. Pete was good but you were better.”
Griffin took a slow step back, lifted h
is right arm and quietly unhooked the rifle from its place high up on the wall. In the same smooth movement he brought it up, opened the safety catch with a nasty click and held it to Pete’s head.
“Wasn’t he, Pete?”
CHAPTER 61
Barry was taken by surprise, and Pete had both hands showing in a pacifying defensive gesture as he slowly leaned over and removed the gun from Barry’s fingers. Placing it on the floor, out of reach. Ann sat there with her arms folded, meeting Pete’s eyes as if they offered some kind of security.
“I don’t want any dialogue,” Griffin said. “Just understand this. They’ve got this place wired and with the music they can’t hear me. I don’t want to hurt any of you, but I will if I have to.”
He glanced over all their faces, keeping the rifle steady.
“Now, Barry, what’ve you got in your pocket? Hand it to me.”
Barry stared forlornly at Griffin, before shuffling himself around to reach into the back of his pants, pulling out wallet and keys.
“And your passport?”
Barry looked over at Pete, who shrugged at him.
“Hey, it’s a robbery, you’ll get another one.”
Griffin checked for cash, saw enough to make his eyes twinkle, then flipped through the passport, checking the photo.
“It’ll do. On a bad day I can look like this.”
He grinned at them. The irony was that the two boys were singing joyfully in the background.
“Now. You’ll all step outside and get in Pete’s little rental, with this piece right on his cranium, and I’ll direct you to where we’re going. Pete, you’ll drive, and the three of us will be all hunched up in the back seat, so there won’t be any nice easy shots for the snipers. Sorry to do this to you, Ann, you’re a good lady. It should be Madeleine, but she just has that lucky charm.”
He held up a finger to his lips, as he bent carefully to lift Barry’s gun from the floor. Then picked up his overcoat from the chair, sliding one arm at a time into the coat, while pocketing Barry’s gun.
“No dialogue, no quick moves, no resistance. You are now hostages, so act the part and no one gets hurt. On your feet. Keep your arms up high in the air. Ann, you’re in charge of Barry, nothing stupid, please. You go first and open up the door, go easy.”
CHAPTER 62
The frustration on the faces of Cortez and the others outside was suddenly replaced by urgency and shock. They’d been sitting through what seemed to be the longest loudest rock and roll anthem ever. Now the door opened and Ann came out with her hands in the air, followed by the two men, and Rivkin holding a rifle to the head of one of them. It was a horrible sight.
“Jesus, that’s a semi-automatic,” the undercover detective sitting next to Cortez said.
“Get the word out. Do nothing. The hostages are not struggling, they’re all too close together. If your best sniper can get a shot in his head, do it, but no, cancel that, they’re getting into a car. That’s Stebbings’ rental. We’ll follow it, stay close enough but easy does it. I don’t want to provoke him, this guy is on the edge, nothing to lose, okay? No sirens.” He sounded calmer than he felt. Cortez realized he had unleashed a potential international tragedy and he was frightened at the enormity of it.
The detective repeated his instructions over the transmitter. What Cortez didn’t want to think about was the report he was going to have to write if it all blew up in his face. And how he would explain that his little vacation to Florida was a lie. Not one that could be justified by this fiasco playing out in the busy streets of L.A.
“They’re heading west, lot of traffic, but we won’t lose ’em,” the voice on the transmitter assured.
“Bloody Troubadour?” blasted Pete from the driver’s seat. “What for?”
“Great show on there tonight, I want you two boys to have a good time,” Griffin answered.
CHAPTER 63
The Toyota slowed down in the heavy traffic on Santa Monica Boulevard as it approached the club, and slipped into the alleyway leading to the back.
“Hey, look who’s playing, I know them,” Barry said, looking at the marquee.
“We’re going straight to the bar. Stay close, act nice and friendly,” snapped Griffin firmly.
Tell the valet to park the car across the road on Doheny, facing south, and give him this,” Griffin continued.
The busy valets identified Pete Stebbings, nodding as he gave the nearest one Griffin’s twenty-dollar bill, straight from Barry’s wallet.
The valet jumped into Pete’s car, backed up and zoomed away before the first of Cortez’s follow up cars came into view.
***
The group walked into the club, and again Griffin flashed the money to pay their cover charge, but immediately Pete was recognized. Happy faces and back-slapping, hand-clasping fan worship escorted them in, and the two musicians couldn’t help but surrender. Landing at the bar, Griffin’s eyes were flicking around, expecting the suits to walk in any minute.
“Wanta jam with the guys?” asked a roadie, gesturing to the band onstage, playing rock and roll in the traditional seventies groove. Pete knew the roadie and the band, who’d been around for years, and he wanted to say yes, but he looked quickly at Griffin for a reaction.
“Great idea, do it, man,” said Griffin, all magnanimous and warm as if he were some kind of manager, with just a casual pat on the right hand pocket of his jacket, a subtle reminder of the gun inside.
“Follow me,” said the roadie, and they all four surged after him through the thick crowd, many of them nodding and patting Pete on the back, one guy shouting above the noise. “Hey, it’s Barry Turnbull, this is great. The two of them together. This is history, this is cool!”
Up on the stage the usual easy deferential procedure between musicians went on as Pete modestly sashayed over to the lead singer, nudging him and grinning, starting roars from the crowd, graciously accepting a mic and hitting straight into a blues yell, the guitars picking up steam with renewed energy. Just behind him Barry came on stage more hesitantly, joined Pete at the mic, gingerly harmonizing in the song, then picking up momentum as Pete grinned at him, put his arm around Barry’s shoulder and brought him closer to the shared mic. The band bounced and smirked with the infectious boost in crowd reaction, and at the edge of the stage Ann looked up, as all the years rolled away, and she forgot about the pain and confusion, and even the last few hours.
A roadie navigated the crowded stage and slipped another mic into Barry’s hand, as he got into a full deep blues roar and started to take over. The crowd was in heaven, waving their arms and whooping with every rising syllable. For Pete and Barry, after nearly eighteen years, this was a sudden and magical reunion. Pete wanted to make sure Ann knew she was part of it as he looked down and gave her a special grin.
All too high to notice the two suits pushing to the front of the stage and fanning around each side, joined by two more.
CHAPTER 64
The rental car was located next morning close to Rivkin’s place, so the puzzle was magnified. Cortez was even more mired in the mess, with a deep gut feeling that once again he had been outwitted by Rivkin.
By the time the late report reached him that Barry’s rental had been removed from the parking spot outside Canter’s, also close to Rivkin’s place, he knew he had lost. The report included corroborated accounts from all the hostages, including Barry’s reason for taking three days to return to his car. They were celebrating their reunion at Pete’s hotel, he said. It added up. Cortez had been conned. Rivkin’s cunning had secured him a passport, money, two guns, a semi-automatic and an unidentifiable car. When it turned up in Mexico City three weeks later, innocently parked in a huge mall, it was too late. Griffin had disappeared again.
Calvin Cortez, the self-anointed smooth operator, had met his match.
CHAPTER 65
Ann’s Apartment
As soon as she could find time away from Pete, who was meeting the movie people for lunch, Ann di
aled Madeleine’s number, hoping she’d be there. She was almost exploding with the news and didn’t want to leave any messages. Madeleine’s coolly amused voice at the other end of the line was just the antidote she needed after the madness, and in a whirl of excitement, relief and Madeleine’s hungry questions, the vivid story came flying out.
“So you missed all the action,” Ann said when she thought she’d finished.
“No. I did what I had to do. I set him up.”
“But you didn’t plan for the happy ending.”
“I got what I needed. I didn’t want to kill him, just balance the books.” She hesitated. “How do you feel?”
“Like a new life is beginning.”
“Are you going to write about it?”
“No. No need for that. The book’s closed. I hope Tarquin can rest in peace now. Wait till you see what it’s done for Pete and Barry. It was like the cure for cancer overnight.”
“Good. I like this feeling too. It could be my next song.”
CHAPTER 66
Pete’s House – Two Months Later
A party was in progress, the house and spacious gardens were not too crowded, and there was a special celebration vibe on the faces and the fancy clothes. The mood was casual and easy, as always with successful people mingling comfortably with their coterie of personal friends.
Carol and Tony were perched on garden chairs watching the action, sipping on moisture-beaded glasses of Pimm’s.
“Only Pete would launch a wedding and a new CD on the same day.”
The Acid King Page 15