Before the Sirens

by K R Hill

  "Welcome to my humble ship, gentlemen.” The heavy captain mopped his forehead with a red handkerchief and stared at the suitcase. "Please follow me."

  They stood on the bow in the mist. Fog horns moaned as the captain swiped a finger over the glowing screen of a tablet while describing the cargo. “The paintings are in a sealed case. You know how we work.”

  "Well, my good sir, that concludes our business.” Saunders pushed the suitcase forward with a foot.

  The captain fell upon it, flipped the latches and shuffled through a stack of bills. "It is parked by the gate.” He tossed a set of keys to Falsen. "The paintings are stored in climate-controlled containers, packed beneath a shipment of coffee. Good night, gentlemen."

  Falsen pulled the gun from his pocket and jumped. He grabbed the captain from behind, pressed the muzzle hard against his skull, flinched, and turned his face. Instead of a loud noise and the splatter of blood, he heard a click.

  "What the hell?" the captain shouted.

  "It seems an Asian pickpocket emptied your revolver.” Saunders tossed the bullets through the air.

  Falsen watched them roll about his feet. Click, click. He pulled the trigger several times.

  "Ah." He dropped the pistol, pulled the knife from his belt and pressed it to the captain's throat. "Keep Ty away or I'll cut the captain's throat."

  "How terrible that would be” laughed Saunders. “I would have the shipment and the money.”

  "Get back."

  The bodyguard drew a long, slender knife from his sleeve, bowed an inch and charged, slashing back and forth.

  Falsen held the captain between himself and Ty and flinched several times as the blade sliced into his arm. The captain went limp and he had to release him or be pulled to the deck.

  "Ah. Your shield is gone." Ty twisted the knife and attacked.

  Falsen shouted as Ty crashed against him. Something sharp jabbed his chest. His eyes rolled back and he shrieked, sucking in a last breath.

  It took Falsen a moment to realize he was still alive and holding Ty. As though bursting to the surface after a long dive, he threw his head back and gasped for air, letting Ty drop to the deck, an arrow through his back.

  Saunders ran and leaped over the railing and screamed until he hit the water.

  Falsen climbed over the captain, ripped open Ty's jacket, and seized his pistol. He leaned over the railing, searching the blackness below. "Damn you. Come out." He fired twice at something in the water. "That was for Tasha, you fucker!"

  "You did this for a whore?” shouted Saunders.

  Falsen fired the remaining bullets.

  "Give up now, we can still pay Ghrazenko."

  "I love her." He hammered the pistol against the railing and threw it to the deck. His hands burned as he tried to tear the railing loose.

  "Run, Falsen. Ghrazenko is going to hunt you like the Israelis hunted Eichmann."

  Falsen wheezed and panted. He wiped a greasy hand across his face and hurried down the gangplank with the money.

  "Have you ever seen wolves tear into a person?” shouted Saunders. "Run Falsen, the wolves are coming."

  "Shut up!" He jumped into the Mercedes limo, slammed the door, shoved the gear shift down and raced across the docks. Beside a container truck, he pressed the brake pedal several times, blinking the taillights. After a few minutes he heard footsteps in the gravel.

  "I'll see you at the drop," the accomplice said, holding a cross bow. He took the keys and stepped away from the window.

  Falsen nodded.

  "But I think we better change the plan. I got word from Long Beach today. The police are–"

  Falsen jumped from the car, grabbed him by the throat and slammed the assassin's face against the hood with a loud metallic thud. “You fucking listen.” He pressed a knife against the man's cheek. “We just tried to kill a broker for the Ghrazenko family, the deadliest syndicate in Europe. We’re screwed, you got it? Not only is the organization going to mobilize the soldiers, but Saunders is going to be coming after us. We’re double fucked and lucky to be breathing at all. You'll be on time at the delivery. Exactly. Because they’re sending an army to kill us. Understand? Every second decides whether we live or die.”

  Chapter 6

  Long Beach, California:

  Connor drove up to the stop sign, leaned over the steering wheel and looked to the left. As he checked traffic, a homeless man stepped off the curb, squirted fluid onto the windshield, and wiped it with newspaper.

  “No Mac,” called Connor, cranking down the window. “Not today.”

  The man with the long, dirty coat, lowered the wipers into place and backed away from the car.

  Connor opened the console and fished around inside until he found some coins. He reached out the window and set the coins in the man’s hand. “Here you go.”

  The vagrant closed his fist, nodded a thank you, and walked across the street.

  As the Mustang turned the corner, Bartholomew said: “If there’s no reason for me to carry a gun, why do you keep looking in the rearview mirror?”

  “Because Alex and his pals are sniffing around. Barry told them about the money, and they want it. If there’s a chance to get easy cash, they’re going to jump all over it. They think we’ll lead them to it.”

  Bartholomew leaned forward and looked at the passenger side mirror. “And you’ve seen that flashy Lexus the keeps popping up behind us, right?”

  Connor revved the engine as he pulled up and double parked. “I’ve seen him. Just go about your business.”

  Bartholomew opened the door and was halfway out when he said: “I’ll finish up the Mantzberg case and look into Tia Alma’s story.” He climbed out, shut the door, and stepped up onto the sidewalk.

  The driver of the car stuck behind the Mustang slapped his door and shouted: “Hey, get that thing rolling, would you?”

  Connor leaned close to the passenger window. “Be aware of who’s behind you, all the time.”

  “You don’t have to tell me that.”

  ***

  Connor drove through downtown, past the trendy loft apartment buildings, taco carts, vegan restaurants, and secondhand stores. A few minutes later he was pulling into the newly paved lot of the Y, all laid out with bright new lines marking the parking spaces.

  He grabbed his duffel bag out of the trunk and hurried up the walkway to the reception area. Once he had explained the situation, how he was going to substitute for Bartholomew in the game that was about to take place, he hurried into the locker room and changed. By the time he made it out onto the court, the two teams were already throwing balls around, parents shouting from the creaking aluminum stands, and the ten-year-old players running this way and that. A few team members stood staring at their phones.

  Not more than a few minutes passed in the game before Connor blew the whistle and threw up his arms. “That’s a foul. Two shots.”

  The fat kid who had gone for a layup laughed and dribbled the basketball toward the foul line. Parents jumped off the bleachers and shouted.

  “You can’t push him when he has the ball.” Connor looked past the boy who had drawn the foul. In the background, 50 feet away, along the chain-link fence that bordered the court, stood Alex. That pink shirt and shiny blazer made him stand out like a neon sign. Beside him stood a tall, heavy man with flat top haircut. Alex was shouting and hammering the guy’s chest with his index finger. When Alex stopped shouting, the big man loosened his tie and marched across the court.

  “Mr. Connor, watch out,” said one of the players.

  Connor stepped away from the contestants and waited for the big man walking toward him. The guy had thirty pounds on him and stood a couple of inches taller, he noted. As the man got close, a breeze pushed open his jacket and revealed a black pistol on his hip. Connor thought about the kids having fun on the basketball court. They were his responsibility. Children plus an angry man with a gun, did not add up well.

  “You should not interfere with
other people’s business.” The big guy with the Russian accent grabbed Connor’s shoulder.

  There was no time to think about what might happen, or how he should react to an armed man grabbing his shoulder. There were children present and he didn’t know what this stranger was going to do. Connor couldn’t risk the man reaching for his weapon, especially if Redmond was involved.

  Connor remembered his hand-to-hand training. In any life-threatening situation, each punch was aimed at a specific body target and calculated to put the attacker down as quickly as possible. The raised arm on Connor’s shoulder meant that half the guy’s body was unprotected. That was the opening he needed. Connor stepped close and hit the big man in the solar plexus, that sweet spot below the breast bone.

  The guy doubled over, moaned, and shook his head.

  Connor realized the gunman was going to recover and might attack at any second, so he turned sideways and hit the attacker with an elbow to the jaw. That dropped the threat to the concrete. The instant the Russian fell, Connor removed the weapon, ejected the magazine and the cartridge from the firing chamber, and bowled the pistol across the court.

  “Call 911!” he shouted. “Everyone, get inside. Tell them to call the police.”

  The players stood motionless, frozen in place.

  He shouted again with the full force of his lungs, and the children sprinted off the court in a pack.

  The police arrived minutes later. Two uniformed officers, a man and a woman, came running onto the court with weapons drawn. When the pair found no threat, they put their service weapons away and locked handcuffs on the suspect. Once he was sitting in the back of a squad car, they began taking statements.

  “So,” said the male cop. “The guy was shouting and rushed at you across the court. As he approached, you saw a gun. He grabbed you by the shoulder. You were afraid for the safety of the children. Is that correct, Mr. Marin?” The cop stopped writing and tapped a pen on his notebook.

  “I had a split second to act,” Connor explained. “I saw the gun and my training took over. I had to make sure the children were not going to get hurt.”

  “Military?” asked the cop.

  “Army.”

  The cop nodded. “And you’re a PI?” He handed Connor back his papers.

  “You saw my license. Why do you ask?”

  The patrolman turned and set his notepad on the squad car, and motioned with a raised chin for Connor to follow him. They walked to the front of the car. “I trained with your father, Monte Marin. A hell of a detective, so I’m going to pass along a bit of intel you need to know: This guy has Russian mob tat’s.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me,” said Connor. “He delivered a message.”

  “I saw your permit to carry a concealed weapon. These guys never forget. If I were you, I’d exercise that right for a while.” The cop’s eyes grew large. “Ya follow?”

  “Point taken.”

  It took Connor an hour to pacify the YMCA manager and finish with the police. Once that was out of the way, he went to his locker, took a quick shower, and walked across the parking lot to his car. He sat sideways in the driver’s seat and rolled down the window. Although it was mid-January, and getting close to evening, the temperature had reached the high seventies, and the car had heated up inside like an oven. The steering wheel was so hot he couldn’t hold it. With his legs sticking out the door, feet on the pavement, he was rolling down the windows to let the heat out, when his phone rang. He pulled it from his pocket and looked at the screen.

  Got day off. Meet at loft for fun?

  Connor smiled and thought about his day, and answered Ashley’s text: 1 hour only. C ya.

  Chapter 7

  Connor turned out of the Y parking lot and headed toward the beach. This part of the city reminded him of his father walking a beat along the same streets. Before long, he was replaying memories of dad, Detective Monte Marin.

  Back in the old days, before Bartholomew and Alma arrived, Connor’s dad used to take him downtown on Sunday afternoons. They’d walk along the sidewalk, through the old Pike, where the sailors played in the tattoo parlors and dark theatres with neon signs that advertised women, and his dad would point out a house here, a store there, and they’d stand in front of each place as the old man told him a story about walking a beat in Long Beach. The highlight of the tour was always the old Farmers and Merchants Bank. That was where his father had become a hero. Connor could hear gunshots and cops shouting into radios for backup, and he always saw his old man sprinting across the parking lot in uniform, popping off rounds from his service revolver as he retrieved a fallen officer. His old man had foiled a bank robbery that day. There might have been other stops on the walking tour, where his father pointed and used words like brothel and gambling hall, but he didn’t know what those words meant back then, and it didn’t matter, because nothing compared to his father becoming a hero, shooting at bank robbers.

  ***

  Half of the spaces in the underground parking garage were empty. After all, it was a weekday and most of the tenants had jobs in cities around Southern California. He parked in his numbered spot, and rode the elevator to the second floor where a cleaning crew was polishing the terrazzo floor. One of them held a lawnmower-size machine by the handles as it hummed and bounced about.

  Connor sidestepped past, and knocked on his door.

  Ashley opened the door, smiled, took him by the wrist and pulled him inside. She had her hair pinned up and strands hung about her face in a naughty, disheveled way.

  “I put my hair up how you like it.”

  Connor barely had time to reach over and flip the deadbolt before she pulled him into the apartment and pushed him against the wall. They kissed.

  “I just need you, baby,” whispered Ashley. She stepped back and turned sideways, lifting one leg slightly in a modeling stance. Her smooth bare leg slipped through the slit up the side of her receptionist dress. At the same time, she pushed a shoulder forward, and the spaghetti strap of her dress dropped free.

  “This is for you,” she whispered.

  They made love against the wall, in a big leather arm chair, and on the floor. During their love making they shared passionate, speechless moments, and laughing, playful times. When they finished, they held hands and walked together, Ashley’s clothes falling to the floor piece by piece, as though getting undressed was an afterthought, until they collapsed on the bed.

  After a minute, she sat up and rested her hand on his chest. “I can feel your heart beating,” she whispered, pushing a strand of hair over an ear. “I’ve never met anyone like you, Connor.” She shrugged. “I love you. We laugh and we play, and it just all feels so good and right, for two years now. I know I said this before. I really want to be your wife.” Tears flowed down her cheeks, but she didn’t turn away or try to hide them.

  “Hey.” Connor sat up and pulled her close. “You’re part of me. But right now, I’m doing some dangerous work. There’s bad people involved, and I was thinking of sending you away for a while until the case blows over.” He touched her cheek and looked at the tears on his fingers, then brushed the Rose tattoo on his shoulder with the back of his fingers as he always did.

  Ashley nodded. “There’s something holding you back. I can see it in your eyes.”

  “I want to marry you too. The only thing holding me back is this case. These people that will hurt you to get at me. That’s holding me back.” He climbed out of bed and pulled on his pants and began buttoning his shirt. When he got the shirt buttoned, he had to undo it because he had put the buttons in the wrong holes. He laughed when he discovered the mistake, then rushed over and grabbed his phone and looked at the time. “Oh no,” he said. “I gotta get to the office.”

  Ashley jumped out of bed, grabbed his shoes and socks and shoved them into his hands. She kissed him when they reached the door, grabbed his arm and held him in place. “Oh, I forgot to mention: I looked into that therapy group of yours. They’re meeting tonigh
t. I was thinking I could go with you, if you need the support.”

  “Okay,” he said, kissing her on the forehead and trying to pull away. “I’ll go tonight, but you don’t need to be there. It’s just a bunch of soldiers talking.”

  “Okay, go alone. We’re going to work this through. I’ll see you when you get home.” She pushed him into the hall and closed the door.

  ***

  Connor drove to the office and parked in the dirt lot he liked, and had to press a hand against his widow as he cranked it up so it would close all the way. Before he climbed out, he looked around the vehicle and made sure there was nothing of value in view to cause a break in. When the car was locked, he stepped over the steel cable that bordered the sidewalk, walked a block and nodded hello to the waiter setting up tables outside a café.

  “What’s up, Jon.”

  “Oh, hey Connor.” The young waiter straightened up, twisted the top onto a salt shaker, set it down, and stepped to another table.

  “Anything happening on the street today?” He handed Jon a twenty.

  Jon snatched the bill, pushed his apron aside, and shoved the greenback into a pocket. “I just got to work. Same old street. But if I see anything out of place, I’ll let you know. Why?”

  “A new case has me spooked.” He walked up the sidewalk.

  “I’ll keep an eye out. Oh yeah, I heard you had a scuffle down at the Y.”

  “That’s where all men get in trouble, right?” He laughed and hurried along the sidewalk.

  Connor turned at the warehouse in the center of the block, unlocked the front door, and headed to the double-wide elevator with the metal accordion door. Scraped and gouged plywood covered the walls. The elevator groaned and shook about, and stopped on the third floor.

  A heavy Mexican woman rushed over with a broom in her hand. As always, she wore a tight dress that made her body look as though it was comprised of three large tires, one for her hips, another for her belly, and the last one was her huge breasts.