by Gar Wilson
"You think Wells will agree to that?" Bristol asked.
"Absolutely," Katz assured him. "The governor-general's office doesn't want this sort of thing getting out. Of course, there will always be rumors, but no one will be able to prove anything. Unless Cercueil's side wins."
"You think that's possible?" Smith asked with a frown.
"Of course it is," the Phoenix Force commander replied. "Now, what were you saying about the winos, Mr. Johnson?"
"Oh, yeah," James said, nearly forgetting his alias. "It occurred to me that the bad guys must be hunting for suitable burned-out bums to turn into a fresh batch of zombies after we wiped out their supply at de Madrid's place. Maybe we can catch them when they try to round up some fresh replacements."
"And maybe Cercueil has a hundred extra zombies already locked away elsewhere on the island," Gary Manning remarked, shaking his head grimly. "Or the son of a bitch may have already fled the country after zombifying Penn and any of his lieutenants who might have known the details of the Haitian's scheme here in Jamaica."
"Still worth checking out," James insisted. "How about me looking into that possibility while you check out Griswald's activities in Montego Bay?"
"I don't want you doing that on your own," Katz declared. "You'll need backup."
"He'll get it," Bristol announced. "Most of the worse slum areas are located in or near Kingston. I'm familiar with them. I'll back him up. With extra men, of course."
"I hope you know what you're doing," Katz said. "If anything goes wrong and Cercueil's people get the upper hand, you might be lucky if they just kill you."
16
The Jamaican Crafts Market in Kingston offers tourists a chance to purchase hundreds of unusual curios, works of art and native crafts unavailable anywhere else on the island, and prices are often lower at the market than at other places in Jamaica. One can buy almost anything at the market. In fact, the area has a reputation as a hustlers' hangout. Dope dealers and black marketeers frequently hit on customers trying to enter the market.
Near the Crafts Market, by the waterfront, a number of storage houses and sheds served as a congregation point for men who had nothing to sell and seldom any money to buy. They were losers in the game of life. Each man had a different story, but all the endings were the same. Some told of losing jobs or wives, others of associates who had conspired to ruin their big dreams, still others of how the government had loused up their businesses. All had eventually turned to drink to help numb the pain and frustration. Alcohol helped them forget the tragedies, real or imagined, that had led to their downfalls. Eventually most would even forget what had caused them to crawl into a bottle to escape the disappointments and hardships of life.
The winos gathered along the waterfront to warm themselves around small fires. They traded with one another. None of them had much, but they spent the daylight hours trying to find food, shelter, warmth, discarded cigarette butts, maybe a few coins. They traded tobacco for food, old newspapers for chewing gum, pieces of string for pieces of adhesive tape.
As hobos, they had learned unique survival skills. They used newspaper to line clothing for warmth, and fashioned it into pillows and crude blankets. String replaced broken shoelaces or missing belts. Bits of tape served as patches for torn or threadbare clothing. Cardboard was good for temporarily mending holes in shoes. An old poster became a rain shield. The bums found a use for almost everything they came across.
Though many spent a lot of time begging, few ever managed to collect enough money to buy a bottle of cheap wine or rotgut whiskey or rum without pooling their financial gains with several of their pals. Together they usually had enough for a bottle. This was generally justified as "something to keep the chill away." The winos also shared food in a similar manner. They generally dined on scraps of meat, vegetables, catsup and other items boiled in a tin can to form a cross between garbage and soup.
They were a strange group with a particular set of values and code of conduct. Many people thought they lived like animals, yet hobos formed friendships, cooperated with one another, and seldom fought among themselves. They were also very suspicious of strangers.
The two newcomers who approached the five-man "family" of hobos were dressed in shabby clothing, old boots and battered hats with shapeless brims. One man wore a wrinkled raincoat with a torn pocket. Both men were tall, black, and appeared to be less than thirty-five years old.
The hobos sensed something was wrong about the pair. Although their senses had been dulled by years of abuse and the loss of millions of brain cells to the alcohol-rot, they somehow understood that these two were different. The strangers' clothes were wrinkled and ill-treated, but the garments did not look dirty enough. But the bums' own clothes smelled so badly they would have been hard-pressed to recognize a stench other than their own.
The strangers did not move quite like real winos. Were they new to the harsh world of the alleys, piers and hobo jungles? Maybe they had just recently hit bottom. Or maybe they were trouble. Sometimes new guys steal, even kill for enough pennies to buy a bottle of cheap rotgut. Every bum had been assaulted at one time or another; some carried scars as permanent reminders. They had all seen men die in this manner. Generally, two or more younger, stronger bastards would attack an older, weaker hobo and either beat him to death or cut him open.
However, this was an extraordinary circumstance, for not only did the two strangers not appear to be threatening, but one of them carried a familiar and much-sought-after object in a brown paper bag. The bottle was enough to convince the hobos to let the newcomers get closer.
"Yo' fellers wants to join us?" Sheldon, the unofficial leader of the hobo clan, offered with a toothless grin. "Could maybe trade you for somethin'. Especially if you be willin' to share what yo' got in dat bag."
"Sure, mon," Calvin James replied, handing the bottle to Sheldon. "Nice jus1 to be warmed by yo' fire. Kinda chilled tonight, ain't it so?"
"Yo' sure right 'bout that, mon," Sheldon agreed as he stripped away the bag to examine the bottle. He licked his lips when he discovered it to be almost full of Myers rum. "Dis is purely a bea-yoo-tiful sight. Mighty good again' the chill."
"I gots a little ganja," another hobo declared, taking several partially smoked cigarette butts from a pocket. "Least I thinks one of dese is ganja."
"Never liked it much no way," Sergeant Bristol replied with an exaggerated shrug. He had to bite his tongue when the guy mentioned "ganja" — Jamaican slang for marijuana. "Thanks, but you keep it, mon. Is okay?"
"Fockin' fog comin' in tonight," Sheldon observed, watching the gray mist floating across the bay. "Mighty glad yo' sharin' the bottle, brother. Where yo' come from, mon?"
"We been up 'round Run'way Bay till couple days 'go," James answered. "Fockin' tourists ain't goin' there much these days. Like a ghost town up there now."
"Tourists ain't here much, neither," a hobo announced after taking a long swallow of rum. "Lots a' bad things been happenin' all 'round island. Bad times, mon. Real bad."
"Yo' blokes do good to stay with us tonight," Sheldon offered. His concern for their safety seemed genuine. "Not be wise to go 'round by yo'selves after dark no more."
"Heard rumors folks been sorta disappearin'," James remarked as he squatted by the fire. "Folks like us what don't live in no houses."
"Ain't jus' rumors," a scrawny little bum with a thick gray beard stated grimly. "I seen 'em get a bloke last week, maybe the week afore that. Memory ain't so good no more. Two fellers jus' grabbed this bloke an' stuffed 'im in a truck. I seen that and I knows what I seen, mon. Lucky they didn't get me, too."
"Christ Jesus," Bristol said, shaking his head. "Was they coppers what done this?"
"I don't thinks they was," the skinny bum replied, taking the bottle from a companion. "They's bad fellers. That be for sure. You gents want a swig?"
"Later," James assured him. "Yo' gettin* me kinda scared now. What these fellers want with us? We ain't got no money or nothin'
."
"Is obeah men what's doin' it," the scrawny man answered. "They left a mark to warn us off. Chicken leg cut off with a twig of hemlock in its claws. Seen it afore. Obeah. Voodoo. Best to stay far 'ways from that, mon."
"Best we sticks together, too," Sheldon added.
"Makes sense to me," James agreed.
Just then the white beams of two headlights appeared along the harbor, cutting through the dense fog. The hobos exchanged nervous glances as the lights approached. Sheldon grabbed the tin can on the fire and poured some watery soup on the flames to put them out.
"Maybe we better hide," someone suggested.
"Best be safe," the clan leader agreed as the sound of the engine became louder. "Probably nothin', but I reckon we're all a bit spooked what with ail's been goin' on..."
A large dark gray vehicle, a truck, rolled into view, blending into the fog-laced darkness like a chameleon on a tree branch. The lights glared into the faces of the hobos as the truck came to a halt. Doors opened, and two men emerged from the rig.
"I think we best be outta here, mon!" Sheldon announced as he quickly shuffled away.
The others followed, James and Bristol at the rear, moving slower than the rest. They were, of course, only pretending to flee. They hoped the strangers in the lorry would prove to be connected with Cercueil's outfit, and they did not really want to escape or allow the men from the truck to get away. Yet if they were to trap the abductors, the two undercover men had to appear to be a pair of frightened and half-incapacitated hobos, like Sheldon and his friends.
James and Bristol jogged behind the winos, imitating their awkward, uncoordinated gait. James glanced over his shoulder. The headlights nearly blinded him as the truck creeped forward. Two human shapes moved in the white glare. The enemy was chasing them. James was not certain if the pursuers carried weapons, but he knew they would not fire. Cercueil needed live bodies to turn into zombies.
"Stop right there, ya rum-soaked scum!" a man ordered, stepping from behind a stack of crates. He wore white duck trousers, a blue T-shirt and a denim jacket. The man aimed a .12-gauge pump shotgun with a cut-down barrel at the hobos.
"We ain't done nothin'," Sheldon declared, raising his hands above his head. "We gots nothin' worth stealin'..."
"Shut up!" the man with the shotgun snapped. "Open your mouth again and I'll splatter you all over the dock."
The truck and two other hoodlums approached the group. The driver, sticking his head out the window, called out to his companions; one of them jogged over and spoke with him. Meanwhile, the shotgunner kept the hobos covered.
James and Bristol held their hands at shoulder level and waited. They hoped the backup team was in position and the radio transmitters hidden in their clothing had informed the team that they were in trouble.
"Hey, those guns ain't necessary," James declared, speaking for the transmitter to make the situation clear to the backup team... providing somebody was listening to the radio receiver.
"Didn't you hear what I told that other scumbum?" the shotgun man snapped, gesturing at James with his weapon. "That goes for you, too, puke-eater. Open your mouth again and you'll be eatin' buckshot."
"Okay," one of the hoods announced. "Get in the truck. We ain't got all night."
"You ain't gots no right to..." the scrawny hobo began.
A hoodlum stepped forward and quickly rammed the muzzle of a pistol into the bum's slim waist. The hobo doubled up with a gasp and received a knee under his jaw. His head snapped back, his knees buckled and he collapsed to the boardwalk.
"Disgusting lump of shit," the thug growled as he kicked the fallen man in the ribs.
"That's enough!" Bristol snapped, stepping forward as if to protect the battered wino.
The thug grabbed Bristol's tattered jacket by the lapel, yanked him forward, and jammed the muzzle of his pistol under the cop's jaw. James clenched his teeth and stifled a curse. The Phoenix pro slowly lowered his hands and held his breath. Bristol was not acting like a rummy hobo, and the three hoods would become suspicious if they realized he was not what he appeared to be.
"You reckon you're tough, boy?" the thug demanded as he dug the pistol into the hollow of Bristol's jaw. "Ain't nobody tougher than a bullet."
"Okay..." Bristol said through clenched teeth as the pressure of the gun under his jaw increased. "I... I'm sorry, mon."
"What the fuck is this?" the hood said with a start, noticing and then touching something hard beneath Bristol's jacket. "Hey, this bastard's packin' heat!"
"What?" the shotgunner eyed the hobos with sudden concern. "You sure about that, Walt?"
"I'm gonna make sure," the pistol-toting hood stated. With his pistol still braced under Bristol's jaw, he slid his free hand inside the cop's jacket. "Don't move or I'll blow your head off."
Bristol stood rigid while the thug eased the .38 Colt snubgun from the holster under his arm. The thug named Walt smiled as he held the revolver in one hand, the pistol in his other hand pressed under Bristol's jawbone. He waved the cop's own gun in front of his face, taunting him with the weapon.
"Looks like we found us an undercover copper," he remarked. "Bet one or two of these other bastards are badge-boys, too."
"We'd better get the hell outta here," the shotgun man said nervously. "This smells like a goddamn setup."
"Yeah," Walt hissed, his voice filled with hate. "But this fuckin' cop ain't goin' anywhere 'cept to hell!"
Jesus, Calvin James thought, his stomach knotting into an icy fist. That bastard is going to kill Bristol!
The Phoenix commando's hand whipped back his dirt-smeared raincoat, found the Smith & Wesson Model 76 that hung from a shoulder strap. His fist closed on the grip of the compact machine pistol, finger slipping into the trigger guard. James moved as fast as he could, realizing it might not be fast enough to save Sergeant Bristol.
The Kingston cop, also realizing Walt was about to pull the trigger, knew there was not enough time for him to safely jerk away from the pistol at his jaw; the hood would almost certainly shoot him before he could get clear. Sergeant Bristol made a decision: the last he would ever make, but still the correct choice under the circumstances.
Bristol moved with a speed born of desperation. He grabbed the snubnose revolver — the Colt — in Walt's left fist, and shoved the muzzle toward the thug's startled face. With his thumb he pressed on Wait's trigger finger.
Panicking, the hoodlum fired the pistol that was lodged in the hollow of Bristol's jaw. Instantaneously, the slug tore through Bristol's head and burst through the roof of his mouth. In the last moment of his life, the police sergeant had increased the pressure of his thumb on Walt's trigger finger, forcing him to fire the other revolver. It was the dying man's final wish.
The snubnose Colt — Bristol's weapon — exploded. A 132-grain copper-jacketed slug smashed into Walt's cheek below the left eye. Orbital bone cracked, and Walt's eyeball sprang from its socket. The bullet burned a path of destruction through the killer's skull and exited at the back of his head.
Bristol and Walt dropped simultaneously to the boardwalk.
James raised his S&W M-76 as the gunman near the truck was just swinging his Star PD toward the Phoenix pro. James triggered first. Three 9 mm slugs blasted into the hoodlum's chest. The impact hurled the body backward into the hood of the truck, and it slumped lifeless to the ground. Bloodstained, one of the headlights shone red.
Now the thug with the shotgun opened fire. He did not bother to aim, and simply blasted a load of buckshot into the group of hobos. A man next to Sheldon went down as if yanked to the plankwalk by invisible wires, his upper torso smashed and bloodied by double-O buckshot. Sheldon cried out and spun around from the force of three stray pellets that ripped into his left arm. Blood oozed from punctured skin and pulped muscle.
James swung his Smith & Wesson blaster toward the shotgunner as the killer was working the pump, preparing to fire another 12-gauge shell. The Phoenix warrior squeezed the trigger of h
is M-76 and pumped two parabellums into the hood's stomach. James continued to fire as the barrel rose, cutting a line of bullet holes through his opponent's chest, neck and throat. The shotgun tumbled away. The body of the gunman hit the boards with a liquid thud.
Panicked, the driver of the truck put the vehicle in reverse and tried to back away from the carnage. Dropping to one knee, James trained his machine pistol on the front tires of the rig. Half a dozen 9 mm rounds slashed into rubber. Bullets sang sourly against the metal hubs of the tires. The driver fought the wheel as his vehicle skidded across the pier. The last few rounds of the M-76 punctured the radiator. A bullet snapped the hood catch, and the hood popped up to block the windshield.
The truck swung into a crazy zigzag pattern. Virtually blinded and terrified, the driver steered to the right, then swung far left. Too far left. The truck rolled awkwardly to the edge of the pier. The driver jumped from the vehicle a moment before it tumbled over the brink. Slipping on the damp surface, he landed hard on a hip as the truck fell in the bay. Water splashed up and drenched the dazed hoodlum.
Calvin James scooped up the discarded Star PD and approached the surviving outlaw, who beseeched him, with eyes filled with pain and fear. Still lying on his back, the thug extended his arms high to show his hands were empty.
"Don't shoot, mon!" he cried, his voice strained by tension and pain. "My leg's busted! I give up! Okay?"
"Just shut up," James ordered, stepping over the lifeless shape of Sergeant Bristol. "I don't wanta hear you talk right now. I'm real fuckin' mad and it won't take much to convince me to kick your ass into the bay. So shut your mouth!"