by Robert Rand
The desk clerk cleared her throat, interrupting the couple. “If you’ll just sign here”, she said, sliding the charge slip and a pen toward them. April signed the slip and placed the card in her purse. “Thanks,” she said, turning to go.
“One more thing, there is a message for you, Mrs. Rourk.” The cheerful clerk said, sliding a pink ‘While You Were Out’ message slip across the counter.
April grabbed it, a look of confusion coming across her pretty face.
“What is it?” Sullivan asked, as he led his wife toward their room.
“My sister wants us to call her at Henry’s parents. How weird,” April said distractedly, and at the same time increasing her pace in search of their room.
“Why’s that weird?” Sullivan wanted to know.
“She’s supposed to be at our house and she hates to drive up the mountain to Big Bear. I hope everything is alright.”
“I’m sure it is” Sullivan said. Nevertheless, Spanky’s words came back full force. “THEY’LL GO AFTER APRIL AND LISA!” He ran down the long hallway until he found the room. Slipping his key card through the slot and turning the handle, he shoved his way into the room. He snatched up the phone, searching for the long distance instructions. He stabbed the number 8 with his index finger just as April sat next to him on the bed. When he heard a dial tone, he handed his wife the phone. “Dial direct.”
April punched in the area code and number and held her breath.
June had been sitting by the phone for the past two hours. Every time it rang, she ripped the receiver from the cradle. Twice it was people calling for her father-in-law, once it had been her husband, who was now boarding a plane at Seattle’s SEATAC Airport and heading to Ontario. If the skinheads didn’t kill Sullivan, she thought Henry might.
Startled by the harsh tone of the phones’ ringer, June jumped, and then grabbed the handset. “April?” she asked expectantly.
“Yeah, Sis, what’s wrong? Is it Lisa?” She felt her sister’s panic and began to panic herself.
“Oh, God! I’m so glad it’s you! Lisa’s fine, she’s with me.” June then began to describe the horror of that morning.
Sullivan had watched the rosy color drain out of April’s face and panic filled him. “Is it Lisa?” he asked. April shook her head side to side quickly, and then shushed him to silence.
“Tell me again why crazy skinheads are threatening us” April demanded as they drove well above the posted speed limit toward Big Bear.
“I already told you, Babe” Sullivan said dejectedly.
“You stabbed somebody in prison. And you expect me to believe that? You…who are scared of spiders and made a five-foot tall pregnant woman go into the bathroom to squash a fuckin’ daddy long legs for you, expect me to believe that you became Mac the fuckin’ Knife in jail, and now these people out of a B-movie are going to force you to work for them?” She stared straight ahead through the windshield into the darkness beyond the reach of the car’s headlights.
“Look, I know it sounds incredible,” Sullivan started.
Turning on him, she spoke with venom, “This is our lives, Sullivan Rourk! These people are fucking with our lives and I’m scared and I hate you for it! Henry works for the FBI. He’ll help.”
“I can’t go to the cops”
April looked at her husband, incredulity showing on her face, “What do you mean, you can’t go to the cops?”
“I’m a convict, I’d be a rat. I’ll deal with it myself,” he answered.
April was stunned into silence for a few moments. “I thought you were going to be an ex-convict, Sullivan.” She spoke just above a whisper. “I thought we were going to have a normal life.”
Sullivan glanced at his wife just as a tear ran silently down her cheek. He reached out and put his right hand on her thigh in an effort to comfort her. She responded by backhanding him across the side of his face.
The car swerved across the double yellow line as he reflexively pulled away, swerving back just in time to avoid a station wagon coming down the mountain road.
Sullivan knew that he owed his wife and daughter the best life could offer; but how to explain to them how reality was? He was an ex-con. He couldn’t return to his old life. The friends he used to have had long since abandoned him. The country club had revoked his membership. How could he possibly be anything more than a con when he was a pariah to everyone from his past? These thoughts raced through his mind as he raced up the mountain road toward the bucolic town of Big Bear.
Chapter 29
Sullivan knew he was in trouble, deep trouble, the moment he walked into the Kellerman’s A-Frame house. Dealing with his brother-in-law, the Fed, was bad enough, but seeing the various plaques and awards on the wall identifying Henry’s parents as both being retired prosecutors was too much. Things went pretty much down hill from there. After checking on Lisa, the interrogation began. And to all the questions, Sullivan answered either “No” or “I don’t know”. April, much to his surprise and relief, kept silent, even when she knew he was lying.
The Kellermans grudgingly allowed Sullivan and April to stay the night, for little Lisa’s sake. But Sullivan left with his family at the crack of dawn. The only part of the night he found amusing was when he overheard the elder Kellermans talking and she told her husband, “Imagine, a convicted felon sleeping under our own roof – on parole, no less!” and he replied, “Yeah, well, at least the outlaw is an in-law and not a real relative.”
“Yeah, tell Whitey that we delivered the message” the taller skinhead was saying into the payphone. He listened for a moment to the person on the other end before replying, “Check it out, homegirl, you tell Whitey that Conan and Scrappy got it handled” and hung up the phone.
“Well, Scrappy, word is that we need to lay low for a few days then go back and snatch dude out of his pad” the taller skinhead said to his friend as they walked back toward their truck.
“Where to, Conan?” asked Scrappy, as he turned the key in the truck’s ignition.
“Back ta dude’s place.” He smiled a wicked grin, “Fuck layin’ low, lets just do this.”
Scrappy laughed and pulled out into traffic along Redlands Blvd. After the events at the Rourk’s the previous morning, the two had driven down into San Bernardino. After partying at a couple of bars they drove west to Redlands and got a room at a cheap motel. They weren’t members of the Aryan Brotherhood – had no desire to be and actually didn’t care much for them as a group, but the Brotherhood paid well for the work these two liked to perform. At a thousand dollars a day, each, to wreak havoc on specific people rather than the indiscriminate variety they would normally torment, was, to these two, life at it’s best.
Sullivan pulled into a sporting goods store on Redlands Blvd. after coming down Big Bear Mountain through San Bernardino. “I’ll be right back,” Sullivan told his wife, who was holding a sleeping Lisa.
April hadn’t said a word to Sullivan since they left the Kellerman’s and she wasn’t going to start now. The revelations of the past eighteen hours were a lot to absorb. She tried to trust her husband, but goddamn it, it was hard to do!
Sullivan was back out of the store in about twenty minutes with a medium size bag. After getting into the car, he withdrew a 5-cell Mag-light flashlight and several packages of Duracell’s. Ripping the packaging apart, he quickly had the flashlight assembled. He held it in his right hand near the light end and slapped his left hand with the battery-filled steel shaft. It made a superb weapon – one even a parolee could carry legally. Next, he pulled a huge hunting knife out of the bag. It looked like it belonged to Rambo – 10-inch blade with a razor edge and the top edge serrated. With handle, it measured 16 inches from end to end. When he shoved the knife into it’s sheath, then shoved it into April’s open purse, her resolve to remain silent exploded.
“What the Hell are you putting that in my purse for – you’re the tough guy who wants to stab people – no, this ain’t happening!”
Th
e baby began to cry, April continued to rant her fury. Sullivan backed out of the parking place, drove out of the parking lot and turned up the stereo. Garth Brooks was singing about having friends in low places as Sullivan got onto the eastbound 10 freeway and shot past a Toyota four-wheel drive that was sticking to a steady 55 mph.
Both vehicles turned off Interstate 10 at Highway 111, though the Corvette was nearly 40 minutes ahead of the Toyota.
While Sullivan, April and Lisa were stopping to have lunch at the Autry, the skinheads were cruising the parking lot of the Palm Springs Arial Tramway.
Scrappy parked next to a blue Ford Bronco. Conan got out and gave the Bronco a hard shove, and when no alarm sounded he quickly pulled a thin piece of steel from his jacket sleeve. He slid the slim-jim between the driver’s window and the outer door panel, with the practiced moves of a professional, he had the door unlocked as quickly as if he had had the keys.
Scrappy leaned down and pulled a slide hammer from beneath his seat and handed the bulky tool to his partner through the open passenger window.
The intention of the slide hammer is to pull dents out of cars. It has an opening at one end that holds a sheet metal screw in a solid grip and at the other end is a handgrip with a large, heavy steel weight that slides between the two ends. By twisting the screw into the Bronco’s ignition key slot, then giving the weight several hard slides into the handgrips’ backing plate, Conan was able to quickly remove the entire key switch. Inserting a flat blade screwdriver into the open slot that used to hold the ignition switch, he was able to start the car with a twist of his wrist.
Without a word, Conan pulled out in the stolen Bronco with Scrappy right behind him. They drove out to Angel Stadium – the spring training center for the California Angels – in central Palm Springs. After parking, grabbing a blue backpack from the floorboard, setting the Club and the alarm on the Toyota, Scrappy jumped into the passenger seat of the Bronco. “Home, James!” he said with a smile.
Scrappy had piercing green eyes and on those few occasions that he allowed his hair to grow, covering the dozen or more battle scars that were scattered across his scalp, appeared to be the All-American boy-next-door. The kind of young man fathers would hope to see their daughters bring home. But looks are deceiving most often in their innocence. This young man had the twisted morals of the convict –don’t hurt kids; rapists and child molesters shouldn’t be afforded trials, just taken out and shot in the public square; old folks were off limits; everything else was fair game. He lived in a world where violence was power, yet the person with the biggest bag of dope reigned supreme. To the average citizen, Scrappy’s world existed in the minds of fiction writers and would be shocked to find that his world and theirs coexisted right there in Everytown, U.S.A.
Scrappy glanced at his cohort. They were basically cut from the same moral cloth, but aside from both men being white, they were physical opposites. Conan was tall and muscular, his facial features slightly exaggerated, giving him a rubbery, hangdog appearance. The tattoo of a cartoon dog on his face between his right eye and ear, along with the various swastikas that decorated his neck, left him easily identifiable, while Scrappy could don a long sleeve shirt and tie after a week without shaving his head and fit into any Fortune 500 company as an up-and-coming executive.
“What’s the plan, Conan?”
“Check out the area for cops, park an’ go wait for ‘em.”
Sullivan was famished. He tried to make light conversation with his wife, but she kept telling him to quit talking with his mouth full. The great food quickly won out over the desire to pacify. Stuffed pork chops, three eggs, over easy, hash-brown potatoes mixed with peppers and onions, smothered in Tabasco sauce, 7-grain toast with butter and jalapeno jelly. His second trip to the buffet was identical to the first one.
April tried to stay mad at her husband, but seeing him eat and play with the baby – she actually liked the spicy jalapeno jelly her father was letting her sample – melted her heart. He was the one she loved. Reaching out, April laid a hand on Sullivan’s arm. When he looked across at her, she silently mouthed the words ‘I love you’.
He waited for more, expecting “Asshole” or “Dickhead” to be tagged on. When no more words came, he spoke to his daughter without taking his eyes from his wife. “Did you know that your Daddy loves Mommy very much and promises to keep her, and you, safe forever?”
The baby paid him no attention, finding a chocolate covered strawberry much more interesting. April smiled and gave his arm an affectionate squeeze. Sullivan saw the sparkle return to her eyes. “Does the kid take naps?” Sullivan asked as he leaned over and brushed his lips against April’s earlobe.
“If not, I’ve got some children’s cough syrup – one teaspoon and out she goes” April smiled, “Not that I’d ever do that!” she exclaimed with false innocence. Though, every once in a while some young mothers needed just a tiny break to get some rest. Though most women would never admit to it, they probably dish out a little more medicine, a little more often than they need to. After all, babies need their rest, too.
Turning onto Arroyo Grande, alert for any cops or nosey neighbors, the skinheads cruised slowly past the Rourk’s house. A sheet of plywood had been secured to the front window, covering the opening. This little look of despair in this affluent neighborhood brought a feeling of self-satisfaction to Conan and Scrappy. They were both so busy looking at their handy work that they failed to notice Mrs. Kravitz, who was already on the phone to the operator.
“GTE Operator. How may I help you?” came the nasal voice with a distinctly Texas accent.
“Operator, get me the police” Mrs. Kravitz whispered, even though there was no way she could have been heard by anyone outside.
“Is this an emergency, Ma’am?”
“It’s those heathens again, don’t ya know.”
“If it’s an emergency you can dial 911 for an emergency operator.”
“I have always dialed ‘O’ for operator when I needed the police and never was there a single little problem. Now I need the police right away, so I would like to speak to your supervisor! Impertinence will not get you very far in this world, don’t ya know.” Mrs. Kravitz blustered into the phone.
“Yes, Ma’am, just a moment. I’ll transfer you.”
“Sheriff’s Department, what is your emergency?” the 911 operator asked when he came on the line.
Conan turned onto Arroyo Seca, then onto Desert Sunrise, which ran directly behind the Rourk’s. Pulling into the driveway of the sixth house from the corner, they parked. Scrappy opened his back pack and pulled out two Riverside County Sheriff’s baseball caps, two green windbreakers with SHERIFF emblazoned in yellow across the back and two Sig-Saur P223 .45 cal. semi-automatic handguns. The two quickly donned the official clothing, shoved the guns into their waistbands and exited the Bronco.
Conan was careful to keep the tattooed side of his face turned away from the door as Scrappy knocked.
A portly Hispanic woman wearing a black dress, white apron and a worried expression opened the door. “Como esta senior policemans?”
“We need to get into your backyard so we can get to the house behind you!” Scrappy said in as an authoritative voice as he could muster.
“Si, of course” the relieved housekeeper said, stepping back to let the men in.
They rushed toward the back of the house, easily finding the back slider off the kitchen. “Stay inside” Scrappy commanded the old woman while he and his partner quickly exited and ran for the fence.
They scaled the Pecky Cedar fence with the agility of teenagers and hurried to the back patio door of the Rourk’s house, guns now drawn.
“Well, it’s those Pinheads or whatever they’re called, like I tried to tell the other operator, they are back” Mrs. Kravitz said into the phone.
“Pinheads? Just what is your emergency?” The operator answered hundreds of calls every day, most were not emergencies, some were just out an out quacks and th
at was what he was beginning to think this one was.
“Well, young man, those little heathens dressed in their leather jackets and their heads all shaved just wouldn’t be allowed to exist in Minnesota, don’t ya know.”
Glancing down at his computer terminal and seeing the callers address, the operator realized that this wasn’t a quack. “I think you mean skinheads, Ma’am.”
“Whatever you call them – they were here just yesterday and broke out the window across the way – as if that family hasn’t had enough trouble, what with him being shot by the G-Men and her having to raise…”
“Ma’am, are these the same two who were there yesterday?” the operator interrupted.
“I’ve already told you so,” Mrs. Kravitz sounded exasperated.
“Can you see them right now?” he asked, as he typed response information into his dispatch computer.
“Well, no, they turned onto Arroyo Seca.”
“What is your address?”
She provided the operator with her address and name. As he began to ask another question, the Rourks pulled into their driveway.
“Well, here they are now!” Mrs. Kravitz said happily into the phone.
“The skinheads are back, Ma’am?” inquired the operator.
“No, no, no. The Rourks, don’t ya know. They just pulled into the driveway in that fancy car. Oh, goodness, me – they have the baby and she’s not in a carseat! But, no need to tell THAT to the police!”