Revenge School (A Pay Back Novel Book 1)

by Myles Knapp

  CHAPTER 12

  Saturday afternoon at 1:30, Morano was at Brandy Ho’s. He went nearly every day for his first meal. For his money—a phrase that always made him laugh because his money was never really his money, it was always somebody else’s money he’d stolen—Brandy Ho’s had the best food in town.

  Morano was addicted to one of the restaurant’s house specials, Hot Smoked Ham with Fresh Cloves of Garlic. One time he’d even tried to count the garlic, but lost patience when he got to twenty-two cloves.

  A waitress served his first Tsing Tao beer before his butt had hit the seat. Then, she ran to the cooler and set a six-pack aside for him. He’d drink four or five with his meal and they knew better than to run out.

  He pulled out his phone and checked his email, looking for updated information on Pay. He didn’t need to order. Everyone knew his choices by heart.

  The cook started things going before Morano had swallowed his second gulp of beer—twelve pot stickers, two orders of ham with garlic, and bean sprout salad with extra peanut sauce. The servers’ mantra at Brandy Ho’s was: “Medium is hot here.” But for Morano ‘extra spicy’ was no problem. Once, to win a bet, he’d chugged an entire bowl of their black bean hot sauce. Suffice to say, he won the bet.

  The report on Pay Back wasn’t good. Before the busboy had delivered ice water and chopsticks, Morano had found the key part. “Looks like Pay has branched out and added to his team. In addition to Chase, he leads something called the Revenge Team and runs vigilante mixed-martial arts classes at a low profile place called the Revenge School. One of my cellies from Pelican Bay told me Pay said, ‘We help good people when the law can’t,’ just before he broke my guy’s jaw.”

  The waiter set down pot stickers, soup and a fresh beer.

  Morano grimaced. Pay might be a problem. He’d crushed that fool, Rock. But it worried him that Pay might have stumbled on his new operation which was generating cash faster than a cheap hooker could drop her thong.

  Waving at the waiter, he pointed to his chair, and mouthed, “I’ll be right back.”

  He headed out the front door to Columbus Avenue where four lanes of city traffic and clamoring crowds of tourists generated more than enough noise to cover his phone call. “Put guys on Pay, 24/7. I want him followed everywhere. Have them report back on anything he does that touches my operation. And if anyone gets a shot at taking him out there’s fifteen large in it for them.”

  CHAPTER 13

  Richard decided he should find out how Mary Ellen was. But the fear still surrounded him like a suffocating blanket. Could the monster be waiting nearby to kill him?

  Chewing his fingernails, sighing, he alternated rocking on the bed with pacing the room, occasionally stopping to look out the window, even though he was unable to take the slightest pleasure in the beauty of the bay. Richard knew if he stayed in the room much longer he’d turn into nothing more than a shaking mound of something…something he’d never be proud of.

  On the bay, a sloop unfurled brilliant yellow sails as the captain took a new course. As the boat darted into the swells, Richard realized he wasn’t the only one he needed to worry about. Maybe he could visit Mary Ellen and help protect her from the fat demonic asshole that had used her face as a punching bag.

  The Hyatt had excellent security so he thought he’d be all right in the hotel and at the hotel’s cab stand. And there were probably cops at the county hospital twenty-four hours a day. It was unlikely anybody, no matter how mean or strong or depraved, would attack him there.

  As long as the monster doesn’t turn out to be my cab driver, I should be fine.

  Waiting in the Hyatt’s cab line, nervously fingering the pepper spray in his pocket, Richard realized he was feeling a little less anxious. He was still scared, but doing something seemed to be better than sitting in the hotel hoping for a response from the Revenge School.

  A sign pointed him toward the hospital’s information desk where a blonde, teenage volunteer was busy blowing huge pink gum bubbles.

  “I’m looking for Mary Ellen Samuels. She was brought in last night.”

  The girl pushed some computer keys then scanned Richard, this time noticing the purplish-blue bruise on his forehead. “ID please.”

  “ID?”

  “The computer says visitation is limited to immediate family members.”

  “Someone beat her nearly to death. Then they kicked me around pretty good, too.” As he handed her his driver’s license, he choked a little, swallowed hard—surprised to find tears forming in his eyes.

  She frowned at the license. “Sir, she was brought in as part of a police investigation. Unless you are a direct family member and can prove it, which you don’t appear able to do, I can’t tell you anything.”

  Richard dabbed at his eyes with a sleeve. “Nothing at all? She was beaten in my apartment, by a horrible, awful man and I feel terrible.” Tears rolled uncontrollably down his cheeks.

  She took pity on him. “I can’t tell you her room number but the system says she’s stable and in a coma. It really doesn’t say much else.”

  Muttering his thanks, Richard headed to the cab stand and back to the Hyatt.

  CHAPTER 14

  After the meeting with Chase and Brooke, Pay got a quick nap. Yawning, stretching, still sleep deprived, Pay was counting on several double espressos to get him through a long night with Sam Hong.

  It was a quiet evening at what the team referred to as, “Pay Back World Headquarters.” The outside of the building was the essence of bland. Except for the color of the neon parking sign everything else—walls, front door, even window coverings were cement colored or charcoal gray.

  Inside was the stuff they needed for work: mixed martial arts set up, weights, a rotating selection of surveillance vehicles, weapons locker, several computer worktables, Pay’s living space and, of course, Blade.

  The mammoth dog scared everyone who saw him. His missing ear and scars left no doubt he’d been trained to fight, and Pay had figured he’d belonged to a drug dealer at one time. It wasn’t until later that he learned Blade was a retired War Dog, who’d honorably served in the military.

  Blade was so intimidating animal rescue couldn’t give him away. But when Pay offered up half of his beef jerky, the beast had rolled over and begged for a belly rub. They’d been watching each other’s backs ever since.

  Pay scanned his email, trashing spam and searching for people who deserved assistance, deleting messages from whiners who wanted help killing the guy whose cat peed in their yard. Or the ones who complained about neighbors parking cars in “their” section of the street. Pay wondered if people really thought he’d school someone over cat pee or a friggin parking problem.

  One email started out right. “I need help. I’m frightened for my life. Last night this monster hammered me and left me unconscious. And I found my neighbor beaten nearly to death in my bed. She’s a girl I don’t know very well, but I like. I looked right in his face but it happened so fast that I don’t think I’d recognize him if I saw him again. But he won’t know that. Will he want to kill me now? I’m too terrified to go home. I want to find out who hurt Mary Ellen, but I don’t know how. I don’t want to be scared anymore.”

  Signed, Richard Johnson

  Guy sounded good.

  In Pay’s world a client’s commitment to getting personal justice was key. Pay never turned anyone away for lack of cash, but he regularly refused clients who didn’t demonstrate the motivation and dedication required to get revenge.

  Pay grabbed the phone.

  “Hello, this is Richard.”

  “Richard, name’s Pay. You got a problem.”

  “Mr. Pay, I really need some help. There’s this girl and she was beaten.”

  In Pay’s mind a picture started to form; slight, frightened, mid-twenties Caucasian male, most likely born in California. Stuff a
nyone could hear in a voice if they paid careful attention and knew what to listen for. “It’s Pay, not Mr. Pay. Got your email, read it. You don’t need to repeat it.”

  “OK, sir. I am sorry. What should I do?”

  “It’s Pay, not sir. Just be quiet. You’ve got to learn to protect yourself. This evening a package containing a key will be delivered to your room. Which hotel and room?”

  “I’m at the Hyatt Regency Embarcadero, Room 2217.”

  “Tomorrow, take the key to the UPS store on the 700 block of California. Open mailbox number twenty-one. Inside will be a package. Take it and leave me a key for your apartment.

  “Don’t open the package in public. Inside there’ll be a bottle of Phase IV Grizzly Bear Pepper spray. It’s 80 times more powerful than regular pepper spray. Along with it will be a shoulder holster, pistol and ammo. The gun is clean. Call Old West Gun Range in South SF. Ask for Matt. Schedule lessons and range time. Right now you can’t defend yourself. By the time we’re done, you’ll be able to.”

  Pay paused to breathe. And to see if the guy had enough stones to jump in.

  “Um…Pay, are you done? Could we meet first? Someplace safe, like the Hyatt lobby? I’m not sure I’m ready for a gun.”

  As Richard talked, the picture in Pay’s head continued to fill in. Based on vocabulary and clarity of voice, which lacked the throaty distortion common to people in their late thirties, a vocal characteristic that grew with every cigarette, year of life, or extra pound, Pay figured Richard was a college educated, non-smoker. The quiver in his voice was fear.

  “You want to get even?”

  “I want to find out who beat me. And I want to be safe. But shooting someone? I don’t know.”

  “Violent self-aggression is your only option.”

  “Can’t the police help me?”

  “If the guy is a real pro, the cops can’t really help. If they find the guy you might be safe for a while. But he could kill you before they find him. Or they could find him and he’ll pay someone to knock you off while he’s awaiting trial. Only sure way is for you to take him out.”

  “K-k-kill him?” Richard stuttered out.

  “I know. It’s a hard thing to come to grips with. Right now you don’t have to. But to be safe, you need to learn how to use a gun.”

  “Um. OK. I guess.”

  Pay could hear the reluctance in his voice. “Tell me about the guy who beat you.”

  “He was a huge fat man. I kind of remember a black beard. Caucasian. Maybe a little over six-feet tall. Mostly I remember he picked me up and bounced me off the ceiling, then tried to throw me through a wall.”

  “And what do you want to do about that?”

  “I’m not sure. Right now I just want to be safe.”

  “What we do is not about justice. My team will help you get revenge. And I don’t mean an eye-for-an-eye. The exact level of retribution is your decision, but most people eventually want more. Like two eyes for an eye. Or two eyes and a leg.”

  “That’s disturbing.”

  “It is. And it’s a lesson I learned the hard way. Listen, if you want to be safe but can’t commit to growing a pair and handling the messy parts—and there are always messy parts—don’t waste my time.” Pay paused to let that sink in. “The fastest way to help you is to change the way you think. And the first thing I have to do is teach you skills so you are no longer completely defenseless.”

  “All this scares me.”

  “It should. But it’s the only way I know to get rid of the fear.”

  “What’s this going to cost me?”

  “Five hundred dollars for the gun and the lessons. That’s our cost. You can leave cash in the box with the key. It’s just to cover expenses and prove you’re serious. Your choice. Hire us or spend the rest of your life scared.” With that, he hung up.

  CHAPTER 15

  Richard wanted to find out who hurt Mary Ellen. And thinking ‘brave’ sounded good. But he didn’t want to risk his life on a guy he knew nothing about. He called his friend, David Hunter—reporter at the San Francisco Chronicle.

  “SF Chronicle, David Hunter.”

  “David, its Richard Johnson.”

  “Richard! Been too long since I heard from you. How are things?”

  “They could be better. Last night my neighbor was beaten and left in my bed. I got pretty badly mauled, too.”

  “That was you? I read our police reports this morning. There was something about a stripper in North Beach, but I didn’t make the connection.”

  “It was me. I’m still in shock. The guy might come back. I think I’m going to need someone to protect me.”

  “How can I help?”

  “I found this guy online who calls himself Pay. He runs something called the Revenge School and says he can help me.”

  “I think I’ve heard of the guy, but I don’t remember anything specific. Let me search our files and talk to some of the other reporters. I’ll see what I can find out.”

  “Thanks David that would be great. Could you get me something soon?”

  “I’ll get right on it.”

  “Anything you can do, I appreciate.”

  “If there’s a story in it, I want it.”

  “I really need you to hold off on that. I saw the bad guy’s face. Anything you print could get me killed.”

  “Sure, I understand. I’d never put a friend in danger.”

  CHAPTER 16

  Chase and Pay sat in the team’s lounge; pool table on the left, Formica worktable on the right, and six big green chairs lined up around the plasma. Pay had permanent dibs on the extra-large one. He’d had more knife wounds stitched up in that chair than he cared to count.

  Pay was curling a thirty-pound medicine ball. He’d start with twenty standard curls then switch to reverse curls, palming the heavy ball like a basketball. He made it look easy. So easy everyone who saw him thought they could do it, too. But everyone who’d ever tried, even Chase, had failed.

  Every now and then he’d put the ball down, switch hands and take a big hit from a quart of purple Gatorade.

  Chase was at the worktable, jeweler’s loop screwed into his eye, fiddling with a tiny screwdriver and swearing at a non-performing gadget.

  To Pay, it looked like a surveillance recorder, but he could never be sure what Chase was working on. Sometimes a candy cane was the latest in hi-tech microphones, and sometimes it was just a candy cane.

  “You OK with tonight?” Pay switched hands.

  “Sure. Why not?”

  “Could be dangerous.”

  “How? Visit an exclusive club and enjoy adult beverages with a group of wealthy, white gentlemen. A few of whom are trying to figure out if they can steal my money and my women. It’ll be just like hanging with a bunch of NBA owners.”

  “Whom?”

  “What?”

  “You speak English better than I do.”

  “Actually, I speak English more correctly,” Chase chuckled. “Could be because, unlike you, I actually went to class, graduated cum laude—that’s ‘with honors,’ for you Neanderthal lineman types.”

  “Just don’t want anyone hurt. All those rich guys with concealed carry permits and no experience.”

  “Wouldn’t be the first time I got shot at.”

  “Can’t believe Brooke thinks you will fit in better than I would.”

  “Course I will.”

  “Crap. You guys think I’m a total redneck.”

  “If you hadn’t insisted on marrying your sister,” Chase laughed. “Come on Pay. Even if we could get a decent designer suit in size 54-double long, I’d still have to tell everyone you’re my friend, a second rate WWE wrestler.”

  “Whatta ya mean, second rate?”

  “I keep telling you. Steroids are the secret.”

 
“Six foot five and 285 isn’t big enough?”

  “Well, it isn’t just the size.”

  “What?”

  “Successful wrestlers have entertaining personalities.”

  Pay laughed and flipped the medicine ball at Chase. Chase caught it, tried to do a reverse curl, and for what must have been the thousandth time, dropped the ball, barely missing his foot. He snarled and kicked it towards Pay.

  Brooke walked into the room as Pay moved to the door. “You boys ready to plan this thing?”

  “I’m in,” said Chase. “Pay, you staying?”

  “Little tiny, second rate redneck wouldn’t be any help with this.”

  “Jeez Pay, tonight’s a simple ‘meet, greet, look real sweet.’ Way more me than you, big guy. When it gets serious we’re still going to need help from our favorite wrestling has-been.”

  “Five minutes and I’ve been demoted from second rate to has-been. I’m gone.”

  Brooke smiled at Chase. “There’s not really much to plan. Tonight it’s you, me, Amy and Keira.”

  “What have you got in mind, gorgeous?”

  “We’ll all ride over together. The membership committee has instructed me to make sure you have the absolute best possible experience.”

  “Mighty white of them.”

  “With a $500,000 membership fee they’ve got motivation. Plus, you represent a market segment the club has had trouble reaching.”

  “The club wants brothuhs?”

  “No, they want rich, charming sports and entertainment personalities. They’re hoping you’ll bring a little fresh excitement to their ambiance.”

  “And by excitement you mean they’re interested in me bringing in a new group of ho’s.”

  “Yes. But only in the classiest sense of the word.”

  An hour later Pay called Chase. “How’d the planning go?”