A Hard Place: A Chauncey Means Novel

by Sean Lynch

“Me too. Thanks, Dave. I owe you.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  The next call I made was to Russ Dijkstra. I got his voice mail. I left him a detailed message admonishing him not to come over to the house uninvited, under any circumstances. I doubted the people gunning for me would know where I lived, but I couldn’t take the risk. Serious effort had already been expended to shorten my lifespan, and I didn’t want Russ walking into an ambush.

  After I hung up, I grabbed my Mossberg shotgun and headed for the garage. I set the house’s security alarm and unfolded an old U.S. Army sleeping bag I had stored with my camping gear. Then I lay down on the garage floor to catch a few hours of sleep. Any intruders hoping to do me harm would presume I was inside the house and make a play for me there. Paranoid, yes, but preferable to being murdered in my bed.

  I slept intermittently, and dreamt of Romeo pimps and assassins armed with Glock pistols swarming me like locusts. Each time I awoke I found the Mossberg 12-gauge nestled reassuringly beside me.

  I would have preferred Karen Pearson.

  Chapter 29

  Oakland Police Sergeant Alvero Quintana answered his cell phone on the second ring. I’m certain he recognized the number on his phone’s caller identification.

  “Hello,” he said, avoiding saying his name. He always answered with his name before.

  I didn’t respond. Instead, I placed my cellular phone against the mouthpiece of my home phone’s receiver. I was calling Quintana from my house’s landline. The cellular phone was set on ‘speaker’ mode. I played back thirty seconds of the dialogue I’d recorded of Officer Bolson and Drop-Dead Bullock at the house in the Oakland hills before I pulled their plugs. Their conversation ended with the sound of gunfire.

  Next I switched to a portion of the recorded conversation between Belicia Hernandez and me in my car last night on the drive to Greg Vole’s house; the part where Belicia described being beaten and raped in Efren Campos’s apartment for the first time. And by whom.

  I took my cell phone away from the receiver and put it against my ear. I could hear the sound of his breathing.

  “That’s only a small sample,” I said. “I’ve got a lot more.”

  “That all you got?”

  “No. I got Belicia and Campos, too.”

  “I’m supposed to be worried?” he challenged.

  “I were you, I would be.”

  “What do you want?”

  “A meet. You and I have business to conduct.”

  “I’ll pick the place and time.”

  “I don’t think so,” I said. “You’ve had too many cracks at me already.”

  “Then we don’t meet.”

  “Fine by me,” I said. “I’ll meet with OPD’s Internal Affairs Division instead.” I paused long enough to make him sweat. “This was a friendly phone call, but it doesn’t have to be. Being as how I’m still taking in air, despite the best efforts of your pals, I figured you might want an opportunity to make amends. Money can make hard feelings go away. But if you don’t want to deal, there’s no point in talking. I’ll be seeing you around; you can count on it.”

  “Wait,” he said. “How do I know you’re on the level?”

  “That’s funny,” I said. “Especially since you’re the one been trying to smoke me.”

  “That wasn’t my idea,” he said. “That was somebody else whose name I won’t say over an open line. I can explain.”

  “I figured you could. That’s why I’m giving you the opportunity to prove how sincere you are. With dollars.”

  “Name the place and time,” he said.

  “You know Alameda Point? The former Naval Air Station property?”

  “I know it.”

  “Take Main Street to where the old runways begin. Follow it past the gate until you hit the water. I’ll be there. Twenty-one hundred hours. Come alone. Bring cash.”

  “How much?” he asked.

  “What’s your life worth?”

  “I’ll be there,” he said.

  Chapter 30

  The phone never fails to ring when you’re in the shower. Fortunately, I was almost finished, and with a towel around my waist picked up the phone by the fourth ring. A glance at the caller I.D. told me it was Karen Pearson.

  “Hello, Chance?” her voice spoke tentatively.

  “The one and only,” I answered. “Hello yourself, Karen.”

  There was a long silence. I wasn’t in the mood; I had things to do.

  “If you have something to say, please say it,” I said, trying to keep the exasperation out of my tone.

  “I was hoping we could talk.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “I meant in person,” she said.

  “I’m on a pretty tight schedule today,” I told her.

  “Working?” she asked.

  “As a matter of fact, yes.”

  “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

  “What about your work? No school today?”

  “I took the day off,” she began. “I’m not feeling well. Not after last night.”

  “I know what you mean.” Another long pause. I could hear her breathing.

  “I need to see you,” Karen finally said.

  “The last time you saw me, you told me I was an evil man,” I reminded her. “If that’s still how you feel, seeing me isn’t going to make you feel any better.”

  “I was upset,” Karen offered. “I said some things. Things I wish I could take back.”

  “That’s what I get for taking you at your word,” I grunted.

  “I deserve that, I suppose,” she said.

  “You do,” I had to agree.

  “Will you see me, or not?”

  It was my turn to pause. After a moment, I elected to relent, knowing I would probably regret it. I wonder if she knew I would before she called? More than likely.

  “I have to drive into the City later this afternoon. I could stop by your place in an hour or so? That okay?”

  “I’ll be waiting.”

  I hung up. In twenty minutes I was shaved and dressed, and twenty minutes after that I was knocking on Karen Pearson’s door.

  When she opened it, I didn’t know what to expect. After the way she opened her door for me on my first visit, anything less was going to be anti-climactic. Nonetheless, I wasn’t disappointed.

  Karen was wearing a silver-colored blouse made of a filmy fabric designed to cling, with a generous distance between buttons. She didn’t strain the design parameters by buttoning it very high. Her hair was arranged, and she had on just the right amount of make-up to accent her large brown eyes. She completed the ensemble with a skirt and heels; accoutrements I could only assume she didn’t usually wear when home alone on sick leave. I was flattered, and my eyes belied it.

  “Thank you for coming,” Karen motioned me inside. “Can I offer you something?” She closed the door behind me. “A beer?”

  “No, thanks,” I said. “I’ve got a busy evening lined up.”

  “Would you like to sit down?”

  “I’d better not get too comfortable,” I told her. “I’m in a hurry. You wanted to speak with me?”

  I watched her take in a deep breath, and she stepped towards me. Close enough to feel her breasts press against my stomach.

  “Chance, you know I want to be with you,” she began. Her eyes looked up at mine. “You must know that. And you know I’m attracted to you.”

  “But?” I said. She nodded slightly.

  “But I’m not sure about the other thing.” Her hands snaked up my chest.

  “The other thing? You can use adult words with me, Karen. Some of them I can even spell.”

  She blinked up at me in irritation. “You know what I mean; what you do. The violence.”

  “Oh; that ‘other thing.’ I was afraid you didn’t like my after shave.”

  She pushed away from me, shaking her head.

  “You’re being a jerk,” she snapped.

  “Yo
u’re treating me like one. You asked me here to listen to you say, ‘I want you, Chance, but not the way you are?’ What the hell kind of childish nonsense is that?”

  “I’m only being honest!” she retorted, as if that meant something.

  “Were you being honest when you told me, before you insisted on accompanying me to the Yucatan, that you were ‘tougher than I think?’ I took you at your word. Clearly that was a mistake.”

  “How was I supposed to know?”

  “Because I warned you.”

  “You didn’t tell me two creeps were going to threaten our lives! Threaten to rape and kill me!”

  “You know what I do. I didn’t pull any punches.”

  “Maybe not, but you didn’t exactly spell it out, either.”

  “I didn’t come here to argue, Karen,” I said, refusing to meet her rising voice.

  “Then why did you come?”

  “I’m asking myself that now,” I said, more to myself.

  “Anyway, it doesn’t matter,” I spoke up. “It’s not your fault. I knew better than to let you tag along, but I went against my better judgment because I was so attracted to you.” When I said the last part, Karen’s eyes flashed in triumph. “I let my guard down and it cost me. It cost us.”

  “But you admit you’re attracted to me,” she pointed out, softening her voice. “Isn’t that something to build on?”

  “Of course I’m attracted to you, Karen. “You’re stunning; that’s not the point. I let it affect my judgment. I made a mistake.”

  “I don’t understand,” Karen said.

  “You don’t have to.”

  “I want to.” Her brown eyes implored me. “Can we talk about it?”

  “I shook my head. “No point, Karen. I’ve been down this road before. I know where it leads.”

  “Not with me.”

  I slowly reached out, took Karen by the shoulders, and looked directly into her eyes. “You asked me once if I was ever married? I told you I’d been close. It didn’t happen because she wanted the same thing from me that you want; she wanted me to be who I am, but change what I do. I can’t. Who I am and what I do is the same thing.”

  “If you weren’t willing to make that sacrifice for her,” Karen said, “then maybe she wasn’t the one.”

  “That’s not it,” I corrected her. “She shouldn’t have asked me. Once you’ve been to some of the places I’ve been, and done some of the things I’ve done, you can’t undo them. And you don’t forget. Those places, and those things, become part of who you are. And for somebody to think you can transform into someone else, because they want you to, isn’t merely naïve; it’s ignorant. And insulting.”

  “It’s not what you do, Chance,” Karen countered, “it’s how you do it. I’ve dated a cop before, and my father was a Marine. I’m not blind to violence, and I know it’s sometimes necessary. But you act so far outside the law you’re almost a criminal yourself.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said. “When I was a cop, and a soldier, I did a lot of things you’d call crimes because somebody in authority told me to. Some of the things I did, under lawful orders and with the full weight of the courts behind me, I’m not proud of. Then one day I woke up and realized that getting a government paycheck and a pat on the back from a superior officer doesn’t make something right. So I checked out.”

  “You mean you quit,” Karen announced, lifting her chin.

  “I’ve never quit anything in my life,” I corrected her. “I simply decided to stop being somebody else’s pawn. It was the best call I ever made.”

  “You might call giving up a legitimate career to be a freelance gun-for-hire a choice, but most people would call that quitting,” she argued. “Admit it; you just don’t want to play by the rules.”

  “Call it what you want,” I said, turning to the door. “I do what I do now because I want to; not because a bigger cog in the machine snaps his fingers. On my terms. And for a helluva lot more money.” I opened her door. Outside, a light rain had begun to fall.

  “So you’re just going to check out? Of us?”

  “I’m done explaining myself to you, Karen.”

  “We had a chance, you know,” she said.

  I resisted the urge to retort, ‘That’s my name, don’t wear it out.’ Instead, I said, “You’re a beautiful woman, Karen. Your ex-husband was a fool to let you go. But no; you and I never really had a chance. I see that, now. I’m sorry for not seeing it earlier. So long.”

  I walked through the door into the rain.

  I had things to do.

  Chapter 31

  This time, when I entered Club Rialto, Gary the Bouncer cut me a wide swath. He needn’t have; I wasn’t there to scrap.

  It was a little before noon on a blustery Monday. The radio weather lady I listened to during the drive to San Francisco said it was going to be a rainy Monday by nightfall. I believed her.

  I didn’t have to ask for Donnie Demaris. He was seated at the bar with a stack of receipts, a pocket calculator, a glass of wine, and a cigarette dangling from his mouth. California law prohibits smoking indoors, especially in an establishment licensed by the State Bureau of Alcohol and Beverage Control, but Demaris didn’t appear to be deterred. His eyes widened when he saw me.

  “Holy fuck,” he said. “Chauncey Fucking Means. I wasn’t supposed to be hassled by you no more. I done what you said. Scotty Fleischer ain’t been back. I swear.”

  “Relax,” I said. “This is a social call. I’m not here to give you a hard time.”

  “Yeah?” he scoffed. “Since when do straight head-busters like you start hanging out in gay bars in the Castro?”

  “Honest,” I said, crossing my heart. “I’m not here to screw with you. I’m looking for your friend Kathy.”

  “Kathy? What the fuck do you want with her?”

  “I have a business proposition.”

  “Mister Means,” he said, “I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing, but I’ll give you some friendly advice; don’t mess with Kathy. You’re a badass, no doubt about it, but Kathy will eat you for dinner. She’s nobody to fuck around with.”

  “Does she use money?”

  “Who doesn’t?” Demaris snorted.

  “Then tell me how to get in touch with her.”

  “He doesn’t have to,” a voice behind me said.

  I turned slowly around, keeping my hands in view. It was a good thing I did.

  Kathy had emerged soundlessly from the kitchen behind me. She was barefoot, which explained the silent approach. She was wearing a too-small, black, T-shirt, skin-tight, ripped jeans, and her obligatory dog tags. A burning cigarette protruded defiantly from a corner of her mouth, and she had one eye squinted from the smoke. In her right hand, which was resting against her thigh, was her Heckler and Koch P-7. I’m not sure which I stared at harder; her gun or her thigh.

  “I told you the next time I saw you, Hard Guy, I was gonna kill you,” she said.

  “Actually, you said the next time I pointed a gun at you, you would kill me. As you can see, my hands are empty.”

  “Whatever.” She raised her pistol one-handed and pointed it at my face.

  “Don’t you want to know why I came to see you?” I asked.

  “Don’t give a fuck,” Kathy said.

  “Kathy,” Demaris said. “Please put down the hardware, will ya? All the man wants to do is talk.”

  “So let him talk.”

  “It’s tough to converse when you’re looking down the barrel of a pistol,” I said. “Dampens the mood.”

  “I know,” she said. “Now you know what it feels like.”

  “I’m not unfamiliar with the feeling,” I told her. “I’ve stared down guns before. More than once.”

  “Not mine,” she said.

  “True.” I said. “Which makes us even. You want to hear my proposition, or not?”

  Kathy lowered the pistol. “Come on,” she said.

  She led me
through the kitchen to a small office. She gestured to one of only two chairs. I waited for her to sheath her weapon in a shoulder holster slung over the other chair and sit down, before sitting myself. Once Kathy was seated she took the cigarette out of her mouth and exhaled a long stream of smoke.

  “What’s on your mind, Hard Guy?”

  “Job offer. Gun work. One night only.”

  “What’s the pay?”

  “Five grand.”

  She tilted her head back. “What do I have to do to earn five large in one night?”

  “Like I said; gun work. I need someone to watch my six at a meet. Someone reliable. Someone not afraid to pull a trigger. Someone discreet.”

  “Why me? You don’t even know me,” she said.

  “Sure I do,” I said. “I’m a detective, remember.”

  “You don’t know shit.”

  “Don’t I? You’re not from California. By your accent, if I had to guess, I’d say Georgia or the Carolinas. You grew up deprived. You’ve got no family to speak of, and no reason to go back. I assume what family you do have doesn’t approve of your lifestyle choices. You emigrated to California when you got out of the service. You were an MP, or in a transportation company, where you worked convoy escort. You did at least one tour, maybe more, in either Iraq, the ‘Stan, or both. You saw action.”

  “Go on,” she said, taking a drag on her smoke.

  “You lost somebody, or several somebodies, whom you cared for. It hurt. You checked out. You fly under the radar, live a Spartan, autonomous, existence, and earn your living doing what you do best; getting the job done, whatever the job is.”

  “Not bad,” she conceded. “Maybe you’re a detective after all.”

  “You’re not that hard to decipher,” I said. “I suffer from some of those same maladies myself.”

  “Who are you meeting that you need somebody like me to watch your back?”

  “A cop.”

  “A cop? You need fire-support to meet a cop?”

  “A cop who turns out little girls and puts them on the Track in Oakland to get used up and die.”

  “A pimp cop,” Kathy remarked. “That’s something you don’t see every day.”

  “No, it ain’t,” I said.