by R. J. Jagger
He wasn’t Rekker.
Song memorized his face.
He disappeared inside.
Now what?
SHE HEADED OVER to the BMW, wrote down the license plate number, then reclaimed her spot in the shadows.
Someone walked out of the bar.
It was the ugly guy with the gut.
“China doll, where are you baby?”
Shit.
Did the jerk really think she was coming back?
He looked around.
Then the worst thing that could happen did.
He spotted her.
“There you are! Come here and give daddy a kiss.”
63
Day 3—September 23
Wednesday Night
CHASE WAS A DRUG. Teffinger couldn’t get her out of his blood. He’d had more than his fair share of women but this was different. This was—wham!—you’ve been smacked in the forehead with a baseball bat, now deal with it.
She called him at 7:30 and made a suggestion.
A lewd suggestion.
A lascivious suggestion.
He listened.
Then said, “Sounds reasonable.”
“What would be a good place?” she asked.
“I’d probably go with Cadillac Sam’s for something like that. You ever heard of it?”
No.
She hadn't.
He gave her directions.
“Nine o’clock,” she said.
“Okay.”
Teffinger got there a half hour early, found the place a lot more crowded than he expected, ordered an Anchor Steam and leaned against the bar. The stages were all packed. Grade B-plus strippers gyrated with every ounce of sex they had. Guys stuffed dollars into their g-strings.
Girls too, for that matter.
ZOOGIE’S GIRLFRIEND, Winter, said she used to strip here, which is probably why the place was on Teffinger’s brain. Being here ignited a recessed visual. He actually remembered Winter on the far left stage one crowded drunken night. Teffinger wandered over with too many beers in his gut and tipped her a five. She put her legs over his shoulders and rubbed her g-string in his face, actually touching.
She smelled like perfume.
Later she gave him a free table dance.
How did he forget all that until just now?
Suddenly his cell phone rang and Neva's voice came through. “Don’t forget about the strategy meeting in the morning. Six sharp.”
He took a long swallow of beer.
Nice.
Cold.
Damn good stuff.
Teffinger pictured Northstone at the front of the room, working the whiteboard with colored markers and making serious faces.
“We just had one this morning,” he said.
“They’re every morning,” she said. “Don’t you check your emails?”
He hadn’t, not in a week.
But said, “Of course I do.”
She said, “Where are you, anyway?”
Suddenly a woman was at his side.
Young.
Blond.
Brushing up against him with an evil look and running her fingers through his hair.
Wearing next to nothing.
“Hey, cowboy,” she said.
“Opposite of cowboy, actually,” he said. Then into the phone, “I’m working on the Zoogie case.”
“Can I give you some advice?”
“No.”
“Good, because here it is,” she said “Stop making me worry about you. I don’t like it.”
The line went dead.
HE WAS DOWNING his third Anchor Steam when someone came up from behind. He turned to find Chase, wearing a short white skirt, facing the other way and rubbing her ass against his.
“Did you bring it?” he asked.
She nodded.
“I’m already wearing it.”
“You’re so evil,” he said.
“Thanks to you.”
He kissed her.
They got drinks and took seats at the far back stage which was being worked by a stunning Asian dressed in knee-high socks, a short plaid skirt and white blouse tied above her stomach.
“Give me the controller,” Teffinger said.
Chase looked around to see if anyone could see what she was about to do. A few could, if they were paying attention, but they weren’t. She reached inconspicuously under her skirt, pulled out a controller attached to a thin cord, and put it in Teffinger’s hand.
At the other end of that cord were vibrating eggs, strategically placed.
Teffinger flipped the switch.
Chase’s face immediately changed.
He smiled.
Suddenly the dancer unbuttoned her schoolgirl blouse, pulled it to the side and ran fingers over her tiny but firm breasts. Her nipples got erect.
Teffinger laid a five in front of Chase.
The dancer got down on all fours, crawled over until her face was inches away, then stuck a tongue in Chase’s mouth.
Teffinger dialed the power up on the controller.
64
Day 3—September 23
Wednesday Afternoon
JONK’S MUSCLES BURNED, they burned bad, so bad that they seized up and slowed him to a jog. Vomit shot up into his mouth. He swallowed it down and kept going. Fifty yards later, even deeper into the rat’s nest of industrial pollution, an intersection appeared. Winter’s car was smashed broadside into a cinderblock building, as if it had tried to make the turn at too great a speed.
Steam came out of the hood.
Jonk tried to run faster.
He couldn’t.
Suddenly the Egyptian man came into view, walking briskly towards a white sedan twenty or thirty yards farther down, carrying a limp body in his arms.
“Hey!”
The man turned, startled, then broke into a trot and got to the sedan just as Jonk came around the corner. He pulled up the trunk, dropped the body inside and slammed the lid. Then he got in the driver’s door, fired up the engine and floored it.
Jonk was right there.
So close he could touch it.
He dived onto the trunk, found nothing to grab and got thrown off, smacking the side of his head on the asphalt.
“Goddamn it!”
The car sped down the street.
Shit!
Shit!
Shit!
HE TWISTED AROUND, frantic, looking for someone in a car that he could yank out. There was nothing around, only Winter’s car, dead on the street. Something on the ground next to it caught his eye.
It was a cell phone.
He picked it up.
It wasn’t Winter’s.
Hers was pink, this was black.
The Egyptian man must have dropped it.
Steam continued seeping out of Winter’s hood.
Probably from a punctured radiator or hose spewing antifreeze onto the engine. The driver’s side of the vehicle was smashed all the way down. The passenger door was open, left there after the man yanked Winter out. Jonk had a wild idea, catapulted himself through the door. The key was still in the ignition, in the on position. He turned it off, then back on.
The engine didn’t respond.
Shit!
He got out and kicked the ground.
Wait.
The transmission was probably still in drive.
He checked, found that it was and shifted into neutral. Then he turned the ignition key again.
This time the engine fired up.
He shifted into drive and floored it.
TEN SECONDS LATER he had another wild idea. He opened the cell phone and redialed the last number that had been called. A woman answered in a middle-eastern tongue.
“English,” Jonk said.
“Who is this?” she asked in English.
“Listen very carefully because if you don’t do exactly what I tell you to do, the man is going to die. Do you understand?”
A pause.
Then,
“Yes.”
“Let Tag loose right this second, give her the cell phone and tell her to keep the connection open. Tell her to run and to let me know when she’s safe. If I get the word within three minutes that she’s okay, I’ll let the man go. If I don’t get it I’m going to kill him. This is a one-shot deal and it starts right now, so go!”
65
Day 4—September 24
Thursday Morning
THE SILVER BMW turned out to be registered to one Nathan Rock who was a lawyer in Rapport, Wolfe & Lake specializing in international law. What Song couldn’t figure out is why he was having a clandestine meeting with the criminal department’s law clerk, Rayla White, off-site last night at a dive bar. The obvious theory—that they were having sex or an affair—didn’t seem to fit because Rayla left fifteen minutes after Rock showed up. Rock, on the other hand, hung around for another hour and eventually staggered out with a woman wearing a blond wig up top and red high-heels down below.
Song couldn’t figure it out.
She was no good at this kind of thing.
Nuwa called early Thursday morning, before Song was done with her first cup of coffee, and said, “We need to meet.”
“What happened last night?”
“I’ll tell you when we meet.”
“It needs to be someplace close, my bike’s bugged.”
“You’re kidding.”
No.
She wasn’t.
Fifteen minutes later Song headed down the street to Chang’s for croissants and fruit wedges, then snuck out the back and managed to catch a bus on California just as it pulled away. Twenty minutes later she got off and walked north on Battery turning every few steps to see if she was being followed.
She wasn’t.
Still, her blood raced.
TWO BLOCKS LATER someone fell into step with her, appearing from nowhere.
Nuwa.
Incognito in a baseball cap, oversized sunglasses and baggy clothes. “Good thing I’m not a rattlesnake or you’d be dead right now.”
Song smiled.
“So, how’d it go with Rekker?”
Good.
Very good.
They went to Gary Danko’s for dinner. Nuwa—make that Rain—wore a sexy red dress and smiled the whole time.
“He got touchy,” she said.
“How touchy?”
Nuwa shrugged.
“You know, like he wanted to sweep everything off the table, throw me on my back and do me right then and there.” Song must have had a look on her face because Nuwa said, “I said like he wanted to. Unfortunately for him, they had rules against that there.”
“So he’s definitely interested,” Song said.
“Interested, yes, if you call drooling interested,” Nuwa said. “Here’s the bottom line. He’s going to want to get me over to his place. I’m going to let him. What I want you to do is get me something to put in his drink and knock him out. Then I’m going to have a good look around.”
“You mean sleeping pills?”
No.
She didn’t.
Something faster, almost instantaneous.
Something more powerful.
Something that fogged the memory.
“Something like roofies.”
“I don’t think those are legal,” Song said.
Nuwa rolled her eyes.
“If they sold them at the drugstore I’d just go get them myself,” she said. “That’s why I’m talking to you. I don’t have any connections in this country but you do.”
“I don’t have those kinds of connections.”
“Then get them,” Nuwa said.
Song chewed on it.
Then said, “He’ll suspect something if you knock him out.”
Nuwa studied her and frowned.
“You’re afraid to get dirty,” she said.
“That’s not true,” Song said. “I just don’t think it’s a good plan, that’s all.”
Nuwa said nothing.
Delicate.
That’s the word that popped into Song’s head.
Delicate.
“Don’t worry about it,” Nuwa said. “I’ll have Shaden get them.”
SONG EXHALED, uncertain whether she should actually say what she was about to. Suddenly the words came out, almost on their own. “Just get in and unlatch a window or door or something,” she said. “Somewhere he won’t notice.”
Nuwa looked over.
Surprised.
“Then what?”
“Then keep him occupied and I’ll sneak in.”
“You’ll sneak in?”
Song tilted her head.
“Did I say that out loud?”
Nuwa patted her on the back.
“You’re really cute when you wear your criminal face. Did anyone ever tell you that?”
66
Day 4—September 24
Thursday Morning
THURSDAY MORNING BEFORE DAYBREAK, Teffinger’s alarm radio kicked on at 4:45 to the voice of an over-hyper DJ, the point being that he’d already had his coffee and was going to flap his lips to prove it. If the guy was a dog he’d be a poodle. Teffinger muted him and closed his eyes, just for ten more seconds. The next time he opened them was an hour later, at 5:45.
That wasn’t good.
He knew that but couldn’t remember why.
He threw on sweats and headed out of the marina for a jog. Ten minutes into it he remembered what he was supposed to remember, namely there was a six o’clock SJK meeting this morning. If he turned back now, threw on clothes without showering and busted a few red lights, he’d only be a half hour late. He slowed the pace, deciding, then picked it back up.
Screw it.
He didn’t have time.
The meeting would be noise.
It would be the equivalent of the DJ.
He needed to get all the noise out of his head.
He needed to think.
And that’s exactly what he did as he pounded the pre-dawn streets of San Francisco, except the thinking wasn’t about SJK like he wanted it to be, it was about Chase.
She was a woman with no boundaries.
No financial boundaries.
No intellectual boundaries.
No sexual boundaries.
No boundaries, period.
HE’D NEVER MET HER TYPE before and had to admit, deep down when no one was listening, she scared him. He had looked for his equal for a long time. Unfortunately, he still hadn’t met her. He’d shot right past his equal to his superior. Until he knew her boundaries, he wouldn’t be able to understand her. And until he understood her, he wouldn’t be able to trust her. And until he trusted her, he wouldn’t be able to love her.
Actually, that last part wasn’t true.
He already loved her, although love wasn’t the exact right word.
Love-lust was a better word.
Love-lust-drug might be even better.
Or love-lust-drug-adrenalin.
He had no idea where it was all headed.
He did know, however, that he’d ride it to the end.
He had no choice.
He was already strapped in.
Chase.
Chase.
Chase.
Who are you?
BY THE TIME he got back to Bad Add Vice, showered and got dressed, it was a quarter to seven. The meeting would be over by seven, meaning it was history.
His phone didn’t ring.
Neva wasn’t calling to get him there.
That wasn’t good.
Maybe she saw something on the chief’s face this morning that said the damage was done, irrevocably done, forever and hell-be-damned done.
Shit.
He walked up the wooden docks to the parking lot, hopped in Bertha and stuck the key in the ignition. “If you don’t start, I’m going to push you right off the dock. I’m not kidding this time, I’m really not.”
He turned the key.
Bertha coughed in pro
test, as if being woken rudely from a deep hangover.
Then she started.
Teffinger patted the dash, said “That’s my girl,” and pointed the front end toward Condor’s place.
67
Day 4—September 24
Thursday Morning
YESTERDAY HAD BEEN GOOD which almost guaranteed that today would be hell because that’s the way Jonk’s life worked. The Egyptian woman actually fell for his cell phone trick and released Tag. Then the white sedan got stuck at a railroad crossing. Jonk swung left and smashed into the driver’s door just as his engine overheated and conked out. The man escaped but Winter was alive.
They met up with Tag.
Then they holed up in a cheap motel on the south edge of the city to let their bodies recover.
That was yesterday, the good day.
Now it was today, the guaranteed bad one.
In hindsight, Jonk was glad the man escaped.
Otherwise, he would have killed him, meaning he’d be on the wrong end of a police hunt right now. Not being there meant he could concentrate on the treasure.
Finally, the treasure.
He stepped outside, found the hotel edgier than he remembered and headed down the street on foot for the first place that sold coffee and food.
“Screw him, screw him to hell.”
That’s what Tag said yesterday when Jonk told her about Poon’s directions to forget about her and stay concentrated on the mission.
Jonk cut her in for one-third of whatever they recovered if she wanted to stay involved.
She did.
Absolutely.
That meant the three of them were equal partners.
A MOM-AND-POP GROCERY STORE called All Natural Foods & A Few Unnatural Ones appeared up ahead. Jonk stepped in to see if they had a coffee pot, which they did. It wasn’t mom or pop behind the counter, though, it was a pimply faced kid reading a comic book. Jonk bought three large coffees, bagels, cream cheese and, just for grins, low-fat donuts that probably tasted like crap but might not.
Walking back, his phone rang.
He checked the number.
Unknown ID.