The Informers (The Stringers Book 2)

by TJ Martinell

  “I know ya almost just got killed by the ISA,” he said. “And I know ya lucky to be alive and might want to have a drink and a couple smokes by now. But I still need to know what happened. How did things go so badly this morning with our source? Where is he, speaking of which?”

  “Dead, courtesy of the ISA.”

  “Ya sure it was them?”

  “Couldn’t have been anybody else.”

  “Did he say anything to ya?”

  “Hard to talk when you got a bullet in your gut.”

  Olan pondered over the statement like it was a philosophical proposal. He wiped the sweat off his forehead and onto his trousers.

  “Well, at least ya ain’t dead,” he said. “It coulda been worse, I suppose.”

  I looked at him, hiding my skepticism.

  “You went through a lot of trouble to get me out of that little mess,” I said.

  “Nah. A delivery crew just completed an assignment. Your friend Tom Hayes got wind of the situation when he ran into them. I told ‘em they could go in for ya.”

  “A big risk to take for little ol’ me.”

  “Don’t think it was all about ya and ya gal pal. We had no idea what the ISA was gonna do.”

  “It had to have been the boy.”

  “What?”

  “The boy was supposed to have information about an undercover officer, right?” I said. “Maybe he did have something. That had to have been why they killed him, and then they wanted us dead. If they’re going to waste all the time on a kid, why not kill the stringer just to make sure the information didn’t get out?”

  “But we don’t know a thing.”

  “What do you have next for me?”

  Olan looked at me and placed his hand on his desk. “I want you to lay low for a while. Stick around here in SoDo and don’t cause no trouble. Ya no good to me dead.”

  “I’m no good to myself dead.”

  “All the more reason for you to stay low for now. Ya can work here in the newsroom, write stories for stringers. Here ya won’t cause trouble. When we’re ready we’ll call you back.”

  His eyes betrayed his rationale, one which he would never actually give me. I knew the game. I had to agree, but not so easily.

  “If you say so,” I said reluctantly. “I’d prefer to be out there. But I’d also prefer to be alive.”

  At the door, Olan stopped me with a hand on my shoulder. I turned and he had that peculiar look on his face again. He started to speak, but the words fell apart on his tongue and he muttered as his hand came off my shoulder. He kept staring at me and then he walked back to his desk. I watched him, puzzled and full of questions, but left knowing full well he wouldn’t talk.

  Port peppered me with questions as soon as I stepped back in the newsroom. I gave him short answers before hurrying to the lobby. There, Tom was smoking a cigarette, an anxious expression on his face. We walked out together past the guards outside. I asked Tom where Jeanie was, but he cut me off and told me to be quiet as he led me to his car in the parking lot. We got in and drove through an alleyway, cutting across the usual route back to my place. Tom vigilantly checked the rearview mirror every other second, and eventually we both saw a car appear behind us.

  Tom made a smooth controlled turn to the right, shifted gears and accelerated briefly, then eased on the pedal and cruised into another alleyway. He parked the car behind a dumpster and told me to get out. He approached a door to the building the dumpster was against and opened it with a key from his pocket. After letting me in, he stepped inside and relocked it and bolted the door from the inside.

  A long stairway in front of us was indiscernible in the darkness. Tom brought out a flashlight had me follow him. At the bottom, we made our way through the tunnel, the walls made of reinforced concrete with rebar sticking out like bones from flesh.

  “Where does it go?” I asked.

  “Home.”

  He opened a trap door and had me climb out. It was some part of the old Chinese restaurant we lived in. I didn’t recognize the room, but the familiar smell of chicken and spilled brandy and cigarette smoke gave it away.

  “Why lead the tunnel here?” I asked.

  “The hell if I know,” Tom said. “But it makes a nice escape route if the ISA ever came. Or anyone else who had it out for me.”

  We went into the main room behind the restaurant where a bottle of unopened moonshine waited for us on the table. Tom uncorked it and poured two glasses and threw his head back as he drank his immediately. I tasted it first, then downed it when I discovered how rough it was on the throat.

  “Why are we here?” I asked, not in the mood for small talk.

  Tom set his glass down, refilled it as he took off his fedora and placed it on the table. He held the glass with shaky hands. I hadn’t seen him this distressed for a long time.

  “Olan told you to stay low, didn’t he?” he asked.

  “Yeah.”

  He refilled his glass. “Why do you think the ISA came out in full force today?”

  “Because the kid had something they didn’t want us to know.”

  “How sure are you of that?”

  “Pretty sure. Can’t imagine what else would make them want us so badly.”

  I went for a cigarette. Tom snatched it from my fingers and dropped it in the center of the table, chuckling.

  “Not while we’re drinking this stuff,” he laughed humorlessly. “You light a match and believe you me we’ll need cosmetic surgery just to look like the Hunchback of Notre friggin’ Dame.”

  “What do you know?”

  Tom drank and wiped his mouth. “You knew we got a guy inside the ISA, right? We actually got two guys. They got different duties, so to speak. They’re ISA, but they get paid to tell us stuff. They ain’t on our side, but they ain’t on the enemy’s side, either. Well one of these guys, I know the fellow he talks to. Do you know how I actually found out about your predicament? Got a call from someone. Wouldn’t say who. But they told me they chatted with the guy inside the ISA. They said that the raid today was meant for someone, to get someone.”

  “Who?”

  Tom stared at me, turned his head to the side. “Who the hell do you think? Would I be here taking shots of my shitty moonshine if it weren’t for you?”

  I sat back in my chair, lowering as if a heavy weight had been placed on top of my chest. I stared at the table, filled my glass with moonshine and painfully forced it down my throat. Tom’s story didn’t add up with what I already knew. I wasn’t on the ISA’s wanted list. I wasn’t a fugitive as far as they were concerned.

  “Anything else you find out?” I asked.

  “Think about it. Olan assigned you to the story. Why do you think he did that?”

  When I didn’t answer Tom went on.

  “I’m saying the ISA got tipped off,” he said. “How did they know you would be there? They wouldn’t have set up a raid to take you out if they hadn’t known you would be the one to go. Someone on the inside had to have told them.”

  I stood up and against the wall, feeling disoriented. There was no argument to be had. The ISA hadn’t shown up randomly. They hadn’t come for Jean or for Griggs. And what had Griggs been there for, anyway?

  “Let’s say you’re right,” I said to Tom. “What do I do?”

  Tom put a hand to his chin. He pushed the glass away from him and then got up and put away the moonshine bottle. He came back rubbing his hand together.

  “Whatever he’s up to, you better do what he says,” he told me.

  “That isn’t good enough for me.”

  He suddenly grabbed my shoulder, punctuating his words with a strained voice.

  “I don’t care what kind of attitude you have about my advice. Believe you me, I got plenty of more words to say. I told you not to make enemies this quickly. This is what you get. Now you got the ISA on your ass.”

  “That isn’t new. It’s the reason I am here
at all.”

  “Yeah, but now someone wants you dead who can make it happen a lot easier and faster. This would be a good time to quit shacking up with that neurotic freak and come back here where you belong.”

  I shook off his hands and stepped back. “No.”

  “Kid, you didn’t listen to me before. How many times do I have to be right before you listen?”

  He appeared as though on the verge of giving me a long lecture, like he used to do when I was a newcomer to his world. But now he seemed tired. Not just in a physical sense. It was a fatigue of a man who had seen too much and endured too much to resist it any longer. Eventually he took a long sigh and grabbed his fedora, saying he would take me home. I declined the offer and left through the front door.

  I hated to admit it, even to myself, but Tom was right. I was in deep. But his way wouldn’t get me out of it. I remembered an old saying; when you find yourself in Hell, just keep moving through.

  ***

  I stood outside Jean’s room in the train car. We had an unspoken policy not to open the door without permission, but at that moment I didn’t care. She had nearly gotten us killed, and Tom’s moonshine hadn’t helped me forgive and forget.

  Jean stood up from her bed where she was sitting and lowered her chin.

  “He was just a child, Roy. He did not deserve to die the way he did.”

  I kept glaring.

  Her voice was weak, vulnerable.

  “I know you think I was wrong to try to save him, but―”

  She started crying behind her hands held in front of her face. “He was just a little boy. He was scared. He wanted someone to help him. He was afraid of you. It was the right thing to do.”

  I loomed above her, still hating myself for not offering the slightest sympathy or comfort. My demeanor felt unnatural. It seemed wrong to chastise her for acting as she had. Yet, if I couldn’t hold it against her, how could she be trusted?

  “The right thing to do is survive,” I said.

  The crying had stopped, but she kept her hands in front of her face out of shame. She didn’t need a lecture.

  “In the meantime, stay away from the newspaper,” I ordered her. “Don’t go there unless it’s with me. When you go out, let me know where you’re going and I’ll do the same if I can. Right now, the only people you can trust right now are Tom and myself. Everyone is suspect.”

  Jean finally brought down her hands, and I was amazed to see her eyes and her pale cheeks were dry. She went out of the room and started making dinner for two.

  “Don’t bother with me,” I said as I stepped out.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Out. I’ll be back at the usual time.”

  Chapter Six

  At the Pike Place Market, I browsed through the arms and ammunition section, where instead of the smell of fish and shrimp and sushi it was lead and gunpowder and lubrication oils. Each of the vendors had a front rack with their weapons displayed, a crowd of five or so checking out the guns.

  There was no fear of thieves. Culprits were treated ruthlessly by the private security guards who roamed the vicinity and eyed any suspicious characters. One of the sellers had also told me the guns had various parts removed before they were put on display and were only inserted back into the weapon after the sale was completed. Since most of them were printed, a thief had little recourse for fixing the gun outside of a knowledgeable gunsmith. Even then, the cost of his services would defeat the whole purpose of stealing.

  I approached one of the vendors named Danielson, a fat Caucasian with a goatee and a light brown sports jacket. He had a lapel pin on his chest from his stint in the Army, and though his physical condition had worsened he still maintained a proper posture befitting of his former rank. He featured a long rack of automatic rifles that had attracted my gaze, thinking it was time for a new weapon. My revolver had proved reliable, but as a backup. Jean’s Thompson performed well, too, yet it had drawbacks.

  I inquired about one of the compact rifles on the right. Danielson took it off the rack and placed it the counter. He pointed at each section as he explained the specifications, then did the same for three others. When he asked me which one I preferred in my gun, he took it upon himself to pick one.

  “Ya want this,” he said as he took one of them apart and gestured at a small black removable section about the size of his thumb. “This is what makes this gun so awesome. It’s more expensive than the others, but it hits whatever you aim it at.”

  Someone standing behind me spoke.

  “Don’t listen to this sonunva bitch. He’s cheating you.”

  It was Griggs. He was out of his trench coat uniform, dressed in trousers and a blue shirt with black suspenders. His arm holster was displayed proudly along with the pistol tucked inside of it. He had a duffel bag hanging over his shoulder and down his back.

  Danielson rolled his eyes at Griggs.

  “What’s ya problem, huh? Ya tryin’ to put me outta business?”

  “If you keep trying to bamboozle kids like him, yeah,” he said. “I don’t like bamboozlers.”

  “That isn’t me. Try someone else. I sell only the best.”

  “You sell the best for only the most expensive price in the whole marketplace.”

  Danielson tapped the counter with his thick finger. “My guns get results.”

  “Not for what he needs.”

  “I didn’t think you’d be interested in helping him,” Danielson remarked.

  “I’m just too much of a saint to let you swindle him.”

  As the vendor’s cheeks turned burgundy red in preparation for a long lecture, Griggs slapped a certificate of purchase down. Danielson picked it up and held it up in the light to verify its authenticity.

  “Stop stalling,” Griggs barked. “You signed that thing last week yourself.”

  Danielson put the certificate away in a lockbox behind him and then spoke to one of the other men working their booth. The man came forward with a box of cartridges and handed them to Griggs, who placed it in his bag.

  “I don’t need your help,” I said to Griggs.

  “You don’t want any of Danielson’s cannons,” he replied. “They’re too much for what you’re interested in. And you’ll want a better gun for your little girl than that antique she carries around. It’s amazing she’s lived so long.

  I reluctantly joined him at the end of the corridor where vendor whom I didn’t recognize had a handful of rifles displayed. Unlike Danielson’s, they appeared older and used, their edges worn and blue on their barrels fading. The vendor was a lanky Hispanic who was appreciative I spoke Spanish when I greeted him but insisted we speak English to avoid confusing potential customers.

  “He needs one of your rifles,” Griggs said.

  Immanuel nodded and turned to the side and took a black polymer-frame rifle off the rack and handed it to me. The gun had a thin front and rear sight and an adjustable open lens. I inspected it for the magazine but couldn’t find it. Griggs took the gun from me and opened the grip, showing a gaping hole.

  “You pour the ammunition in here,” he said. “An internal mechanism arranges them all properly so you don’t have to. Pretty clever. The gun who invented it came up with it after watching his son shoot his granddaddy’s BB gun. It was a helluva idea.”

  I eyed Griggs, quietly harboring my suspicions. He seemed genuinely well-intentioned, but there was no apparent reason for it. Maybe for letting him go.

  “What type of cartridge?” I asked.

  “Winchester,” he said. “Immanuel also sells the ammo, custom-made. It uses a smaller load, but more gunpowder. You can buy full metal jacket or hollow point, but I’d get the hollow point. It won’t go through your target and hit some poor bastard on the other side, know what I mean?”

  I gave him a wry look. “Yeah. I know exactly what you mean.”

  “You like it?” Immanuel said.

  “Get it,” Griggs i
nsisted. “If you’re not gonna shoot it, at least give it to that little girlfriend of yours. Well, she’ll be able to do it better with this rifle. It’s an automatic, shoots damn near perfect if you’re shooting single fire. This is the rifle I left in my car and couldn’t get to. The stock can also extend and collapse, so it’s perfect for a tiny thing like her. I guess I can see why she carried that peashooter. She doesn’t look like she could hardly carry a gun any bigger.”

  “She didn’t have any trouble carrying the boy.”

  I must have said that with a hint of accusation in my voice. Griggs put his hands on his hips and set his jaw defensively, but kept his outrage to himself. He wouldn’t make a scene in front of the whole room.

  I handed the rifle back to Immanuel. He was about to put it back on the rack with a disappointed face when I brought out my wallet and inquired how much it cost. I winced when I heard the price and glanced at Griggs.

  “That’s almost as much as the rifle Danielson was trying to sell me,” I said. “And it was new. This looks used.”

  “It’s been test fired before,” he said. “We know it works. Danielson sells a lot of experimental rifles that tend to have unseen problems come up. Immanuel hasn’t let me down yet.”

  I hid my displeasure as I paid Immanuel. He slid the gun into a sheath, wrote out a receipt for the sale, and shook my hand as he handed both to me. Griggs leaned over the counter and with humor in his voice demanded that he be given his percentage of the sale for commission. Immanuel shook his head and speaking in Spanish told him to get lost. I was turning to leave when Griggs replied to Immanuel in fluent Spanish, telling him to give me some extra consideration whenever he saw me. Immanuel and I shared the same perplexed look.

  If it was meant to reassure me of his motive, it failed.

  I started to walk away by myself, still uncertain of what Griggs was after. He jogged to catch up with me as he lit a cigarette and blew smoke into my face. I wiped it away and told him unless he had another one for me to get lost. He laughed and handed me a cigarette after lighting it. We headed out of the building and into the open street where the mass of small-time vendors shouted and screamed and the buskers competed for the attention of the people moving in front of them. We stopped near the railing and took long drags in silence.