by Robert Rand
Shaking the proffered hand, Sullivan introduced himself. “Sullivan Rourk, nice to meet ya.”
“Rourk? You the guy the Feds shot?” asked Spanky.
“That’s me.”
“Thought you was in Fed court?” Spanky questioned.
“I was acquitted this morning and then arrested as I walked out of the courtroom. The state is charging me with possession of explosives.”
“Ain’t that a bitch?” offered the biker.
The twins came back to the cell and opened the gate. “Rourk and Zigan, your bail’s have been posted. Get out here!” hollered one of the twins.
Sullivan got up saying, “That’s me. You take care.”
Spanky got up as well, “That’s me, too. Let’s get out of this shit box.”
“Hands in your pockets, go to the counter,” ordered one of the twins.
Sullivan and Spanky talked a while as they waited to be processed out of the jail. Sullivan relayed highlights of his trial and Spanky talked about being raided earlier and how the cops had busted him with ten pounds of speed and two guns. They were from opposite sides of the tracks, but they took a liking to one another right away.
“I hear there is a lot of money in that speed shit,” Sullivan said.
“Can be.” replied Spanky.
The two men exchanged phone numbers as they walked out the final door. Their parting handshake was the cover photo of the Press Telegram the next morning beneath the headline “ROURK ACQUITTED/ARRESTED/RELEASED ON BOND”
His attorney met Sullivan outside the jail. “I don’t want to talk to any reporters, Esquire,” he said, as Vasquez approached.
“No problem, Sullivan. Just stay to my right. April is waiting in my car. I’ll take you back to your car at the courthouse.”
They plunged through the boisterous crowd of reporters, Vasquez shouting, “No comment!” all the way to his Cadillac limousine. Sullivan climbed in next to April while the attorney sat in the seat across from them.
After hugs and kisses, April wanted to know “Is it ever going to end, Honey?”
Sullivan turned to his attorney and asked, “Well, Esquire, you’re the lawyer, what next?”
“I can only guess as to the case against you at this point. But if they are going to use the Tovex found in your jacket when you were shot…the D.A. is going to have to make some big mistakes in order for us to beat the charge. I’ll try to work on a plea for probation. But they may want you to do a few months in the county jail.”
“Jail?” April was astounded that he could end up in jail after everything went so well at the trial. ‘Hell, we won! Guilty as sin, and we won!’ her thoughts screamed in her head.
It was after 11 PM when Sullivan and April finally arrived home. April was tired. The long day, the emotional roller coaster, the baby playing soccer inside her, it had all taken a toll. She went straight to bed and took Sullivan with her. April quickly fell asleep in her husband’s arms, a sweet smile of contentment on her pretty face.
Sullivan watched his wife sleep for a long time, his thoughts a jumble of mixed priorities and approaches to those priorities. He could handle a couple months in jail if necessary, but he would try to make it unnecessary.
Money was a problem. He had managed to forge out a backdated contract for the Desert Pueblo Casino to participate as partial financing provider for the bingo cruise. That had forced Chuck Freely to honor the financial obligation with the tribe. However, there was no way for Sullivan to protect his own financial contributions. The tribe had been understandably upset when they found that Sullivan had invested their money without first consulting the tribal council. That presented an opportunity for the tribe to terminate their contract with Sullivan.
He had lost his apartment building to foreclosure, but managed to maintain his home with April’s income and the 20 thousand dollars that she had hidden in the mini storage before his arrest. Now Esquire wanted another 20 grand to represent him in the state case, and there was no guarantee that he wouldn’t have to go to jail.
Suddenly Sullivan remembered that he did have some money – maybe. He gently pulled his arm from beneath the sleeping form of his wife and got out of bed.
Using the phone in the kitchen, Sullivan dialed information and got the number he requested.
“Travel Lodge, Terry speaking, can I help you?” came the cheery female voice.
“Hi, I’d like to know if room 218 is available?” Sullivan asked.
“Let me check for you.”
He could hear the tapping of fingers against a keyboard, then a few seconds later the woman at the other end of the line replied, “Yes, sir. Would you like me to hold that room for you?”
Sullivan’s pulse began to race. He gave ‘Terry’ his VISA card number and asked to reserve the room for the next two days beginning immediately.
After concluding the reservation details, Sullivan broke the connection by depressing the disconnect switch with his finger. When he released it a moment later, a dial tone hummed in the handset, followed by the touch tones that would tell the telephone company that he wanted to be connected to Frank “Spanky” Zigan.
After three rings, the phone was answered, “Joe’s Morgue, you stab ‘em, we slab ‘em, necrophiliacs welcome after six, how can I help ya?”
“Yeah, is Spanky there?” Sullivan asked as he chuckled.
“Who’s this?” came the cautious question in reply.
“The guy who got his number as we came out the door this evening.”
“Hey, bud! It’s me, but I can’t talk on this phone. Lemme call ya right back – ten minutes. You at the number I got?”
“Yeah.” Sullivan hung up.
After a minute, he went into the bedroom and switched off the ringer on the phone next to the bed.
Right at the ten-minute mark, the phone rang. Sullivan snatched it up before the first ring had completed its course.
“Hello?” he said in a hushed tone.
“Okay, jailbird, what’s up?” asked the voice he recognized as being Spanky’s.
“If I had some money to invest, what kind of a return would I get and when?”
“I like that. No formalities. No ‘How ya doin’?’. No ‘Did ya get laid yet?’. Just business. I like it.” Spanky went on, “How much ya got for ol’ Smith Barney?”
“Forty grand. Cash.”
“Get ya sixty grand back within seven to fourteen days, but that’s a one time shot and it’s gotta be soon, ‘cause I’m gonna bake one more cake, then go day trippin’ in some spic-speakin’ place where pussy is cheap, stupid and young to a friggin’ gringo with the green dough”, Spanky was quick to say.
“I’ll be at room two-eighteen at the Travel Lodge in Hemet tomorrow morning. You’ll see my yellow 68 Vette and know I’m there.”
“Nobody else or it’s no deal and we don’t do no deals in the room. Walls got ears sometimes, not sayin’ yer a rat or nothin’. Jus cautious in my business.”
Sullivan heard a click in his ear as Spanky hung up the phone.
“Who you talkin’ to at three in the mornin’?” asked a sleepy-eyed April, while trying to hold back a yawn.
Startled, Sullivan spun around. He got tongue-tied as his brain sent a dozen different lies to his mouth all at once. Finally, after an unintelligible response, he avoided the question and asked, “What are you doing up, beautiful?”
Fully awake April wouldn’t have been brushed off like that. Being more asleep than awake, she didn’t even notice. “I’m hungry. Grilled cheese, dipped in Hershey’s syrup. Will you make it for me, Honey?” she gave him a sleepy smile and scooted her butt on to the seat of the nearest barstool.
Sullivan leaned down and kissed her distended belly and told the baby within, “You remember, Daddy, up at 3 AM to make grilled cheese, but it’s your mother’s idea to dip it in chocolate sauce!”
The next morning, Sullivan left his wife a note.
“Had to go take care of a few things. Didn’t want to
wake you, Beautiful.
Back later!
Love, Your Sullivan
That’s an order!”
He then drove over the mountain highway to Hemet. He filled in the registration card, gave his credit card to the clerk, and signed the charge slip. Once he was inside room 218, he locked and chained the door behind him. Sullivan stood in front of the bed, unable to move. He feared that after seven and a half months that the money had been found. Finally, curiosity winning out over fear, he bent, hooked both of his hands under the mattress, and lifted. The pillows and bedding slid off onto the floor, knocking the telephone and an ashtray from the nightstand as they went. Sullivan didn’t even notice the crash of plastic and glass. Sticking out of a cut in the center of the mattress was the edge of a crisp twenty-dollar bill.
“Yes!” he said aloud, as he stepped up on the box springs and walked forward, pushing the mattress against the wall.
Sullivan immediately began pulling fists full of money from inside the mattress. He tossed the bills onto the box springs. Money was scattered on the bed, the floor and some remained inside the mattress. The knock at the door came while he had his right arm stuffed, up to his elbow, into the torn mattress.
Startled, he pulled his arm out quickly, ripping the mattress further as he did. Then he stumbled as he raced to the door. The quieter he tried to be, the more noise he seemed to make. Looking through the peephole, he saw Spanky, who was looking around nervously. He quickly unhooked the chain and turned the bolt, letting the door open a few inches so he could peer out and make sure there was no one else nearby. Seeing only Spanky Zigan, dressed in brown rough-out cowboy boots, wrangler blue denim jeans, a black, long sleeved western shirt with pearl snaps and a black cowboy hat, he pulled the door open wider so that his guest could come in.
Spanky took in the ransacked motel room as Sullivan relocked the door. “I know I said no business in here, but I just changed my mind.”
“Sorry it’s such a wreck, but I just got here and…” Sullivan was interrupted.
“You slick sum-bitch!” Spanky clasped a big hand onto Sullivan’s shoulder. “I knew it! I told a couple a the brothers when you first was shot and that fancy-ass mouthpiece was on the news spoutin’ off with that shit about innocent man. I knew then you was the one doin’ them jobs!” Spanky said between his laughter.
“Hey,” Sullivan was saying nervously, “I was acquitted of all that.”
“That’s right. And that means you could stand buck nekid in front of the friggin’ White House and tell the guards at the gate that you blew up them machines and all they could bust ya for is bein’ nekid in front of the White House!” Spanky concluded.
A big smile spread over Sullivan’s face, but he still wasn’t going to admit that he had done the robberies. Instead, he asked his guest to give him a hand gathering up the money.
Chapter 19
After everything was counted, all forty thousand dollars, Spanky told Sullivan that he was a fool to let anyone walk out with all that money. Sullivan had realized that, but his options were limited, though he had one ace up his sleeve.
“What choice do I have? I trust you and, if all goes well, I make twenty grand off my investment. If you fuck me, then either I just chalk it up to my own stupidity or…” Sullivan looked directly into the big bikers gray eyes, “or I can set off a little explosion at, say, nine hundred West Avenue L-six, Artha Lee Zigan’s place.”
The information seemed to bounce around inside Spanky’s head for a moment before finding a cell that could process it. However, when that information was finally absorbed, it was like an explosion had occurred inside of that bushy red head. He leapt at Sullivan and slammed him against the wall, holding him there with one meaty forearm pressed against his throat. “Where the fuck’d you get my Granny’s info, you bastard!” Spanky demanded.
“Easy...can’t…breathe” Sullivan struggled to say.
Spanky eased up, and Sullivan told him, “It was on the bail slip you wrote your phone number on.”
“Don’t you ever let nothin’ bad come outta your mouth with my Granny’s name at the end of it.” Spanky hissed, and then let Sullivan go.
Rubbing his throat with his hands as he gasped in fresh air, Sullivan said, “Hey, I didn’t know she was your grandmother!”
“Don’t suppose you did, but just the same, that’s Granny, and I won’t even let God fuck with Granny,” said the biker as he gathered up the money and started stuffing it into a wide money belt that he had strapped under his shirt. “When I got your money I’ll bring it by your place. And I’ll have Granny with me so’s you can meet her. Maybe your wife can make supper,” Spanky suggested.
Sullivan didn’t want to bring April into this business, but he didn’t see any polite way out of Spanky’s having invited himself over for dinner. “That should be fine. Since we were on the front page this morning, it’ll be easy to explain how I know you. Just try and keep her out of knowing about our deal here.”
“What do you mean, front page?” Spanky stopped cold.
“Stop and get a copy of the Press Telegram. You and I, shaking hands in front of the jail, big color photo, front page.” Sullivan told Spanky.
Spanky thought that the only thing worse than having your picture in the newspaper was to have it in the post office. “They shouldn’t be able to put my picture in no damn paper without me tellin’ ‘em it’s okay first,” he complained.
“Well, you’ll have to go back to 1791 and pitch your bitch at those people in Congress who brought us the First Amendment to the Constitution”, Sullivan replied.
Reaching into the right front pocket of his cowboy shirt, Spanky withdrew a clear plastic baggie, partially filled with speed. He handed the baggie to Sullivan and said, “Well, take that and exercise your Constitutional right to party. I’ll see ya in a week or so.”
Sullivan could feel the race of his heart as the anticipation for the drug filled his mind. He was ready to leave, ready to walk out the door and see what this bag of powder would do. If Spanky hadn’t started putting the room back in order, Sullivan wouldn’t have bothered.
Sullivan didn’t realize that the baggie he shoved into his pocket could become his God in a fanatical religion that left no room for anyone else, a religion where all would be sacrificed for the Meth-God. Sullivan couldn’t see it coming. No one ever saw it coming. Like any cult, its leader was charismatic, alluring, and yet subtle in approach. Until one day the leader would be able to say, “Die for me” and the follower would answer “Yes, my Lord.”
After leaving the motel, Sullivan drove east on Highway 74, which was Florida Avenue through the city of Hemet. Before the road began it’s steep winding climb up Mt. San Jacinto, he pulled off into a small turnout and parked. Though there were no other cars at the turnout, there was space enough for two or three more vehicles if any should want to stop. The view was beautiful. Huge granite boulders, over and around which ran a small, fast moving stream. Oaks dotted the canyon floor, while Pines could be seen at the slightly higher elevation on the hillside.
Sullivan got out of the car and climbed down amongst the giant rocks. Once he was hidden from the view of any cars on the road, he opened the baggie of dope, he poured some of the crystalline powder onto the back of his drivers license and used a cigarette lighter to crush the rocks into a fine powder. He used his Visa to form the powder into a line and disassembled a pen to use as a straw. He had used cocaine a dozen or so times years earlier, he expected a similar numbing sensation when he snorted the meth. It was altogether different. Pain exploded in his nose and behind his eyes! Tears fell and his teeth began to hurt. For a moment he thought that Spanky had given him something that would kill him. However, as suddenly as the pain had seared him, he was filled with energy like he had never known. He felt like he could climb the mountain before him with ease and race down the other side!
With his head spinning and all his problems erased from his mind, Sullivan sat back on a rock. The s
ound of the stream was amplified, sounding like the rapids he had once rode with his adoptive father along the American River. So long ago; such a wonderful memory. He closed his eyes. He was back in time for only a moment, and then it was too hot to be encased in a jacket.
The October sun provided light without warmth. It was only 52 in the canyon at full noon. Nevertheless, Sullivan Rourk was sweating as if it were 110. He took off his jacket, then his shirt. The cold air chilled his skin, but the drug warmed him from within. Nearly 45 minutes passed before Sullivan put his shirt back on and picked his way over the rocks to his car.
Chapter 20
“Calm down?” April was infuriated. “I’m eight months pregnant with your baby, you haven’t been able to work since you were shot, we have no insurance, we’re in debt to our ears, your friggin’ lawyer wants more money that we don’t have and you sneak off while I’m asleep, come home hours later spun on speed and you want me to be calm!”
He tried to reason with her, “Hey, beautiful…”
“Fuck you, Sullivan Robert Rourk!” Tears were flowing once again. April grabbed Sullivan’s keys out of his hand, “Fuck you! Fuck you!” she sobbed, as she walked out the front door.
Sullivan followed her outside. When she got behind the wheel of the Corvette and started the motor, he asked her, “Where are you going?”
April extended the middle finger of her left hand in answer as she backed out of the driveway. When she got the car turned and in drive, she left twenty feet of dual black tire marks in the street as she raced away.
Sullivan went back into the house and poured himself a drink.
April’s anger forced her foot down a little harder on the accelerator as she wove through the early evening traffic on Highway 111. She was doing nearly 85 in the 50 MPH zone near the Gene Autry Resort. A California Highway Patrol officer was monitoring traffic with a radar gun from inside his marked cruiser next to the hotel parking lot.