The dimly lit bar was deceptively larger than it looked from the outside. Half of the room was a horseshoe-shaped cocktail bar of the red padded-leather variety. The other side was a pool table and some booths. The only other customers in the place were three men attired in motorcycle leather and two hefty women at the pool table. An overpowering odor of beer-soaked wood reminded Garrison of a hundred such places he'd been to during investigations.
Garrison straddled a barstool. Everyone stared at him. It was the kind of place the local police officers would refer to as a "toilet," which, translated, meant a bar frequented by ex-cons and other white underclass creeps with tattoos, bad teeth, and long, greasy hair. It wasn't the kind of place where he was going to be able to identify himself, ask questions, and hope to get truthful answers. He would have to wing it.
The bartender placed a cocktail napkin on the bar in front of him. She was in her late thirties and had stringy-blond hair and an ingratiating smile.
"Haven't seen you in here before,"
"I'm a first-timer."
"Remind me not to sleep with you."
"I have a bad memory."
She smiled. She wore jeans and an olive-drab tank top stretched tightly over rigid, silicone-filled breasts. She was tall and thin with alabaster cheeks, a narrow nose, and high forehead: classic Nordic features that without the conspicuous tattoos that ringed her arms and neck might have allowed her to have been a fashion model.
"What can I get you?"
He ordered beer. She walked to the other end of the bar, whispered something to a customer, then brought Garrison's beer and placed it in front of him. For the next few minutes, Garrison alternated between staring out the window, glancing at his wristwatch, feigning making calls on a cellular phone, and chatting with the bartender. She told him her name was Tammy.
More customers began to come in and there were more whispers about him, the stranger. Finally, Garrison figured it was time to make his move. He picked up a book of Corral Club matches and walked into the men's room. He took out his cell phone, wrapped a handkerchief over the mouthpiece. He dialed the Corral Club and heard a distant ring in the bar.
"Hello," Tammy said.
"Is Spike there?"
"Who's calling?"
"Bobby."
"Bobby who?"
"Bobby Toland from Fresno. I'm supposed to meet him and another guy there. Just tell him I'll be a few minutes late. Gotta run."
He pressed OFF, shoved the phone in his pocket, and returned to his seat at the bar. Tammy was conferring with two men at the end of bar who looked like ex-cons.
"Another beer," Garrison said.
She reached inside a cooler, and took out a Miller High Life and set it in front of him.
"You a cop?"
"No, but I like guns."
She studied him.
"You waiting for Spike?" He didn't answer. "Because if you are, Bobby Toland from Fresno just called and said he'll be late."
Garrison feigned concern. "The Bobby Toland I know is an FBI rat."
"Just relaying a message, hon."
Garrison took out cash and put money on the bar to pay for the beers. "When you see Spike tell him about the call."
"You'd better tell him yourself."
"He and I are doing a deal. I don't talk on phones when there is the possibility of heat. If you know what I mean."
"You can catch him at the tow yard. If he's not there he'll be out on a call."
"How do I get there?"
"Next to the McDonald's. Wasco Tow Service."
Garrison felt like cheering. "Thanks."
"Catch you later, first-timer."
Garrison stood under a streetlight on Stockdale Highway in an undeveloped area near an abandoned drag strip. He glanced at his wristwatch, and a tepid, dusty wind that was blowing east to west made him blink.
A tow truck came into view. The sign on the truck door read: WASCO TOW. He waved. The truck slowed to a stop on the gravel soft shoulder, then backed up to him, creating a large cloud of dust. A man with massive arms and neck got out of the truck. He was about Garrison's age but heavier, about the same height, and had a diminutive chin and a weathered, ocher complexion that matched the color of his uniform shirt. The skin under and around his eyes was cracked like streambed adobe.
"You the guy who called for a tow?"
"Are you Spike Vincent?"
Vincent stared at him suspiciously. "I was the last time I checked."
Garrison took out his badge.
"I'm a special agent, U.S. Secret Service. I need to ask you a few questions."
"What is this shit? Calling me out here for nothing?"
"I thought it might be easier for us to talk with no one else around."
"Talk about what?"
"Garth Alexander."
Vincent blinked rapidly. "Who's he?"
"He was killed in a shoot-out."
A revealing expression crossed Vincent's face - a brief twitch of the left upper lip and jaw that told Garrison that Vincent was hearing the news for the first time.
"You feds don't impress me any. Don't ever stiff me with a bad call again or I'll squeeze your neck until your heads pops off."
"All I want is what you know about Alexander. No one has to know that you and I are talking."
"I can't believe this. You actually got me out here on a stiff call."
"I understand you served time with Alexander in Europe. You and he were involved in collecting debts for a French gunrunner and got tagged. All I want to know is what has been going on with Alexander recently."
Vincent smirked. "If he's dead, what do you give a fuck?"
"Alexander got himself involved in something that is a lot bigger than breaking legs and gunrunning. That's how he ended up getting smoked. This isn't a routine case. This is as big as it gets and I'm not just going to go away. I promise that what you tell me will be kept in confidence. No one has to know that we talked. Just tell me what you know about Alexander and you have my word that you can get back in your rig and drive off. That's not a lot to ask it, is it?"
"Let's put it to you like this, federal shine boy: Even if I did know the motherfucker, I wouldn't tell you."
Anger welled from deep inside Garrison. He detested men like Vincent, a member of the great American white, angry underclass that blamed their perceived misfortune on everyone but themselves.
Vincent opened the driver's door of his truck. Garrison slammed the door shut and Vincent got a wild look in his eye.
"You think you're a real big man standing there with your badge and piece, don't you, cocksucker?"
"I didn't fly across the country to have you walk away from me."
"You want to fight? I'll whip your ass here and now."
Garrison lunged and delivered a straight right punch that caught Vincent squarely on the nose and slammed his head against the truck door. Vincent made an animal-like grunt and began fighting back. Deflecting two of his counterpunches, Garrison leaned into a powerful body blow, striking Vincent sharply in his swollen torso. Garrison punched savagely - a left and a right combination, then a slashing uppercut. Vincent went down, sliding on the gravel, then scrambled to his feet and dove at him. Garrison threw a right, striking him on the jaw and stopping his forward motion. Vincent dropped solidly to his hands and knees. Garrison snap-kicked him, lifting Vincent's jaw and knocking him unconscious.
Garrison looked about, and then searched the tow truck cab. In the glove compartment he found a loaded .45 automatic. He shoved it in his waistband, returned to Vincent, and then slapped him awake.
"No more," Vincent said.
"Now I'll explain it in language you understand, hillbilly. Either tell me what you know about Alexander or I put your ass in jail."
Vincent spat blood. "What's the charge?"
"All the things you got away with in the past."
Vincent rubbed his chin with both hands. "You'd really do that, wouldn't you? You'd frame my ass just because
I'm on parole."
"Watch me."
"I can't be going to jail."
"Then start cranking those jaws, tough guy."
"About what? I don't know anything."
"Let's start with the Aryan Disciples."
"I know a few members but I ain't into any of that political shit."
"What do you know about them killing a Secret Service agent in Washington, D.C.?"
"Not a damn thing," Vincent answered without hesitation. "I swear on my mother's grave. Nothing. If that's what you're here about, you got the wrong dude."
"When did you first meet Garth Alexander?"
"In Spain a few years ago. I was doing some time in a Malaga prison. The police said I had a hand grenade in my luggage and they said I was connected with a bunch of Basque rebels. But it was bullshit. Alexander and I were the only Americans there and we got to know each other. We knew some of the same people."
"Aryan Disciples people?"
Vincent struggled to his feet and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Yeah. But I didn't know him for very long. He escaped. Alexander was good at that kind of shit. He used to be in the French Foreign Legion. Look, I know what you're here about. It's because I put him together with someone a couple of weeks ago, right?"
"Who are you talking about?"
Vincent shook his head. "I ain't going to commit suicide."
"No one is asking you to. All I want is some guidance on this. No one will know. You have my word."
"Feds lie."
"Yeah, and you are a donkey," Garrison said. "Either sing or put you hands on the truck so I can package you up."
"All I did was steer him to a guy."
"Who?"
"A guy named Timmons. That's who I put him together with. Timmons was looking for someone to handle a job. He asked for him by name. He knew that I knew him."
"Timmons. What's his game?"
Vincent stared blankly at the highway. "Explosives. He's with the Disciples."
Garrison took out a cell phone and offered him the cell phone.
"What's this for?"
"Call Timmons and tell him you have a buyer for C-4."
"Are you nuts?"
"Either you help me put a case on him or it's back to the pen."
"You're trying to put a twist on him, aren't you? You want to put him in a position where he will snitch for you."
"Duh."
Vincent stared at him for a moment, and then took the phone. During the next hour, Vincent made a number of telephone calls - leaving messages on answering machines and with bartenders. Finally he reached Timmons.
"Hello ... Spike. Who the hell do you think? I have a man I want you to meet. He's interested in buying some sewing machines.... What do you think? ... The river. We'll be there."
Vincent pressed OFF and handed the phone back to Garrison.
"What did he say?"
"He'll meet you but only if I come along."
"Let's go."
"He's gonna know it was me. He's gonna know I set him up. He'll kill me."
"Not if he's in the joint."
"Timmons is in with the Aryan Disciples. I can get killed over this."
"You wouldn't have set up the meeting if you were worried about him or them. So cut the sob story and let's get on with it."
The corners of Vincent's mouth elevated into a smile. "I like your moves."
Night fell as Garrison rode in the passenger seat of the tow truck and wondered if he had bitten off more than he could chew. Vincent was driving.
"Timmons will put us through some changes - security procedures - he's super-cautious when doing a deal. Particularly when he is selling explosives. He and some of his boys broke into an Army base down in Texas and stole the shit. He's been making a living off it ever since."
Garrison was driving to God knows where to attempt to buy explosives from a known terrorist and he had no buy money. He was alone and he didn't trust Vincent. Admittedly, Garrison was afraid. To him, fear was an emotion to be controlled, to utilize to his best advantage. He'd realized this for the first time in the Army, when he'd learned to disarm bombs. It was a matter of detaching oneself from the reality of fear. Overcoming the natural instinct to flee a perceived danger put one into another zone; one that he'd become accustomed to after years in the Secret Service.
Garrison recalled being in Cartagena, Colombia, riding on the running board of the Presidential convertible limousine as the President waved at the throngs of on-lookers lining the street. As the motorcade turned the corner, a man had emerged from the throng and sprinted toward the limousine. Without thinking, Garrison had jumped from the moving limousine and tackled him. Afterwards, Garrison realized that he hadn't been afraid, that he'd mastered the fear of dying for the Man. But tonight was different. He was in a strange place trying to investigate terrorists and he didn't trust Vincent. Garrison was over his head with no one on his side and he knew that he could get killed.
In northern Bakersfield, Vincent swerved the tow truck off Highway 99 onto an adjacent road and threaded his way to the tree-lined Kern River.
"What's this?" Garrison asked.
"Take it easy. I know what this looks like, but it's just part of Timmons's security act."
Vincent turned left and cruised slowly along the riverbank. They were out of sight of cars passing on the highway, and Garrison wondered if Vincent was leading him into an Aryan Disciples trap. Stopping at a boat shack, Vincent turned off the engine. The truck windows were down and the eucalyptus trees rustled with a warm breeze. A full moon mirrored itself on the shiny, black-glass water. The night heat reminded Garrison of the Persian Gulf War when he'd hiked ten miles at night to lay mines near an enemy fuel depot. Vincent's hands were shaking.
From behind the boat shack came the sound of a motorcycle engine turning over. Garrison pulled his automatic and touched it in Vincent's rib cage.
"If anything happens you'll be the first one to die."
"Easy, man."
A man wearing a cowboy hat drove a motorcycle from behind the shack, revving the engine. Moving to the passenger side of the tow truck, he turned on a flashlight and aimed its narrow beam at Garrison's face.
Garrison aimed his gun at him.
"Get the light out of my eyes."
"Everything okay, Spike?" the cowboy asked.
"We're cool."
"Your boy here has got the jumps, doesn't he?"
"He don't know you."
"Where'd you get that black eye?"
"My old lady threw a pan at me."
"You're lucky it wasn't full of hot grease. Follow me."
The man revved the engine and slowly drove toward the highway. Vincent turned the ignition key.
"Who's he?"
"One of Timmons's people. He's taking us to Timmons. He has other people here. If any cops had followed us, they would have wasted us for sure."
They followed the motorcycle onto the highway.
"Where are we going?"
"To one of the three pads that Timmons uses for his deals. Don't forget. We knew each other from L.A. I told Timmons you had money and you wanted military-grade C-4. When I told him I wanted sewing machines, he knew I meant C-4."
"How can you be sure he has the stuff?"
"He didn't try to put off the deal. So he must have it. I've bought from him before."
They followed the motorcycle along Highway 99 for about a mile, and Garrison could feel sweat soaking through his T-shirt. The motorcycle swerved onto an off-ramp and got off at Bakersfield's Oildale section, comprised of run-down tract homes and apartment houses. He made a few turns, and ended up in a deserted area lined with abandoned factories and empty lots. Passing an automobile junkyard, the motorcycle turned left into a gravel-covered driveway and crossed an empty lot covered with weeds to a single-story, wood-frame house that was next to a chicken coop. There was a light next to the front porch. A handwritten sign on a post next to the door read: NO PEDDLERS - RING BUZZER. Ther
e was a Ford Thunderbird parked in front of the house.
"That's Timmons's car."
The motorcyclist pointed toward the door, then turned and drove past them, heading back toward the road. Vincent turned off the engine and they got out of the truck.
Garrison could sense someone watching them in the darkness, a lookout probably. But he figured that if they were going to kill him, they would have done it at the river.
Vincent knocked on the door. "Timmons?"
"Come in," a man shouted.
Vincent turned the handle and shoved the door open. Garrison followed him inside. A sofa and lounger were arranged around a large-screen television tuned to a talk show. The dingy living room reeked of stale cigarette smoke and beer. A bearded, overweight Timmons was sitting at a dinette table in front of a .38 revolver. He wore a black leather vest and white T-shirt. He had a leathery complexion. A splash of dark freckles extended from his cheeks upward across his baldness.
"You sure you weren't followed?"
"Positive," Vincent said.
Timmons smirked. "You must have eyes in the back of your head."
"This is my man," Vincent said to introduce Garrison. "Spike says you need some clay."
"Right."
"Who you going to blow up?"
"Your mom."
Timmons glared at Garrison, and then turned to Vincent.
"This cat is a friend of yours, right, Spike?"
"He's good people. And I've seen his buy money. Every dollar."
Timmons lit a cigarette and coughed. The walls were covered with what Garrison would describe as American fascist kitsch; racing flags, a luminous painting of John Wayne, a saddle, a hand-painted WHITE POWER sign and swastika, deer hooves, an antique rifle.
"Yeah, now I want to see it," said Timmons.
It was sweltering and Garrison felt like he needed air. "It's in town."
"So go get it."
"Not until I see the stuff."
Garrison had to give himself time. He could sense other people in the house. Garrison had to get Timmons away from this house. For all he knew, people were hiding in the other rooms. In a fight, he would be outnumbered.
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