by Paul Bishop
Tommy glanced at his collection of bouncers. “There are other problems, but you wouldn’t understand.”
“Let’s not get off on the wrong foot,” Fey told her brother. “Of course I understand. Anytime there is money to be made from a venture there are going to be sharks in the water who want to take a bite. You’re being muscled, aren’t you?”
Tommy looked uncomfortable.
“That’s how you ended up in the hospital a few weeks ago.” Fey knew she was winging it, but all of the pieces seemed to be fitting into place. “All that stuff with the PCP being squirted over the ravers was intimidation. Protection is an age old racket. It started right after the invention of prostitutes and lawyers.”
Tommy grinned at Fey’s verbal expression. “You always shoot from the lip, don’t you?”
“I need your help, Tommy.”
“Whoa,” Tommy said. “You need my help? That’s a first.” He turned to the bouncers who were still hovering in anticipation. “My sister, the cop,” he said to Alice. “You’re lucky I came along. From what I hear on the street, she’s capable of tearing your head off and peeing in the hole.”
Alice looked disgruntled.
“Don’t take it personally,” Fey told her. “Just because I’m old enough to be a G word, doesn’t mean I can’t still kick butt.” She put her hand on Tommy’s arm. When he didn’t pull away, she asked, “Is there somewhere we can talk?”
“Come on,” Tommy said. He turned and headed into the warehouse with Fey and Ash following. “Keep your eyes open,” he said to his bouncers. “Sooner or later, Ottoman’s crew will come.”
Tommy led them past the barrier of oil drums. Two more bouncers took money from the line of punked-out patrons at a gap in the barrier. The kids in the line wore identical sneers under spaced out eyes. Black and leather garb predominated, decorated with rips and metal.
“The generation of hate and violence,” Tommy said.
“Don’t tell me you’re getting philosophical in your old age, Tommy,” Fey said to him, surprised. She never known him to express an insight before.
“Jail does bring some changes,” he said.
For the first time, Fey noticed there was no bitterness in the words.
“Who’s Ottoman?” she asked.
“It’s like you said. He wants a part of the action. Raves make money. Look around.” They were walking through a crush of tightly packed bodies bouncing and crashing against one another. The inside of the warehouse was a wide open space with sagging ceiling beams supporting temporary spot and laser lights that burned into the crowd below. There was a crude bar set up to one side – three planks laid across two oil drums. Three bouncer-sized bartenders pulled beer from iced tubs and hard liquor from boxes on the floor behind them. The band – four skin heads who could scream and play bar chords – performed on a raised platform in the middle of the floor, their music drowning out even the hum of the generators that supplied the electricity. “The overhead is non-existent,” Tommy continued his soliloquy. “The booze fell off the back of a truck. The bands are cheap. There’s no taxes, no licenses, no insurance, and nobody to sue. It’s an entrepreneurial heaven.”
“It’s also illegal,” Fey said.
“Well, you can’t have everything.” Tommy stopped walking. They were at the far end of the warehouse. The noise was still loud, but bearable. He turned to face his sister. There was a challenge in his eyes. “Is that what you want to talk about? Have you come to show me the error of my ways? I though you said you needed my help, but now I get the feeling you’re here to arrest me.”
“Not me,” Fey said. “I’m not working vice. What you do is your choice.” She paused and then said, “What’s Ottoman’s tie to all this?”
“He wants a cut. If he doesn’t get it, he sends out a group of heavies to disrupt the gig.”
“How does that effect you? I thought these gigs were all staged at different places.”
“Yeah, but the customers know who’s running them. Word on the street is a powerful thing. If you can’t keep the danger at an acceptable level, even the burn-outs won’t come. They may be fried, but they ain’t stupid.”
“So you’re going to keep him out with your hired muscle.”
Tommy shrugged. “Gotta try.”
“Why not pay?”
“Would you?”
“No. But since when did you start making the same decisions that I would?”
“My brains might be fried like everyone else’s around here, but I’m still a Croaker.”
“I didn’t realize that was something that made you proud.”
“Just because you’re a tough act to follow,” Tommy said. “Doesn’t mean I’m going to be a screw up forever.”
There was another pause as the two siblings eyeballed each other. “You wanted help?” Tommy asked finally.
Fey drew a photo out of her pocket and extended it to Tommy. “This character was supposed to make the rave scene on a regular basis. All we know about him is that his name was Rush, and he was probably a street chicken.”
“You’re using past tense. Is he dead?”
“If he wasn’t, I wouldn’t be here. Dead is what I do.”
“Yeah,” Tommy said. “Silly question.” He took the picture. “I know Rush,” he said, taking a quick glance. “He was a location scout for me. Helped find a good rave site. His real name was Michael Rushmore. He was a runaway from Kansas or somewhere. Turned tricks over in West Hollywood to keep him in Twinkies. He was a freak for ecstasy, or any other designer drug that turned up at a rave. Couldn’t get enough of the stuff.”
“Anything else?”
Tommy shrugged and handed the photo back. “He was star obsessed. Always bragging on how he’d screwed this movie star or that band member. I always figured he was only running off at the mouth.”
“He ever talk about JoJo Cullen,” Ash asked.
Tommy’s eyes widened. “Is that what this is about?”
“He was the first victim.”
“Wow! Rush said he was doing JoJo. Everybody just blew him off.”
“When was the last time you saw him?”
“It was right after he said he’d done JoJo again. Said Jammer had come looking for him on the boulevard. He was flashing a wad, playing Mr. Cool. He made the scene for a while and then I remember him splitting with some guy. It looked like a love-business thing. They got in a blue van and split. Any of this a help to you?”
“Hard to tell at this point, but at least we have more information than when we came in.”
“How do you know he got in a blue van?” Ash asked. There was something there that bothered him.
“It was when we first started having trouble with Ottoman. I was hanging outside the action on the street to see if I could spot trouble coming.”
“Trouble sounds as if it’s still coming,” Fey said.
Tommy looked at her. “Life ain’t nothing but trouble.”
“You can work this out?” she asked him.
“If not, I know where to turn for help.”
“You’ve changed,” she said. This new Tommy confused her. She still didn’t approve of him, but somewhere he seemed to have discovered a trace of backbone. “I don’t understand.”
“Maybe it was time,” he said. And then he shocked her by kissing her on the cheek.
“Let’s get out of here,” she said to Ash, turning quickly to hide the moisture in the corner of her eyes.
Chapter 46
Outside of the warehouse, on the darkened sidewalk again, Fey and Ash walked back toward Fey’s detective sedan.
“Interesting,” Ash said. “But where does it lead us?”
“I’m not sure,” Fey said. “Perhaps nowhere. On the other hand, we probably have enough information now to make a positive identification on the first victim. Perhaps there’s something there that will give us a clue as to what set the killer off.”
“Maybe,” Ash said, his brain tumbling possibilities arou
nd. “But I’m really getting vibes now that the answer lies in JoJo’s past.”
“Vibes? Who do you think you are? Shirley MacLaine?”
“Nah. I don’t have the legs for the part.”
“Well, I don’t know about this vibes stuff, Shirley, but visiting the orphanage in San Diego where JoJo lives sounds like the next logical step.”
The pair walked on for a few strides before Ash spoke up again, changing the topic. “I have a feeling there’s a lot more going on between you and your brother than most people know about.”
“More vibes?”
“Like ringing a bell.”
“It’s a classic love-hate relationship,” Fey said. “I’ve felt the need to protect Tommy all his life, and he’s resented me for doing so. I’ve tried leaving him to his own devices, but when he crashes into walls he somehow still sees it as my fault. I’ve never been able to win with him.”
“Sounds as if he’s controlling you instead of the other way around.”
“You going to send me a bill for the psychoanalysis?”
“Easy, there, girl. I’m not passing judgment – simply making an observation.”
“Sorry,” Fey said with a sigh. “Actually, you’re more right than you know. It’s one of my more sensitive buttons.”
A primered Chevy Camaro with its windows down cruised past them on the street. Four punks sat in the blacked out interior, heavy metal pounding from cracked speakers.
Ash stopped and watched them pass.
“You can’t even see their eyes, but you can still tell their purpose,” Fey said. She had also stopped as the car drove by.
“Maybe they’re just out looking for a good time,” Ash said.
“And maybe the Pope’s getting a blow job right now.”
Ash laughed. “You really have a way with words.” He watched as the car cruised past the warehouse loading dock. “Ottoman’s heavies?”
“Probably. Rent-a-thugs nineties style.”
The Camaro turned around and drove past the warehouse loading bay again. It headed back toward Fey and Ash.
“Checking the lay of the land and building up their courage,” Fey said.
“Hitting that one last line of coke,” Ash agreed. In a softer voice he asked, “Are you going to let Tommy handle this one on his own?”
“And let him have all the fun. I don’t think so.”
“It’s his fight.”
“Yeah, but he owes me a good outlet to vent my frustrations. Four lowlifes in a bandit-mobile could be exactly what the doctor ordered.”
“So we’re going to roust these guys for you, not Tommy?
“Sounds good.”
“Hell of a piece of rationalization.”
“I think so.”
Ash watch the car slowly make its way back towards them. He’d never backed down from a fight in his life. Recently, because of his physical complications, he’d stopped looking for trouble. This was Fey’s play, however, and he had to back her up. He bent over and removed the five shot. He stood up and holding it casually down by his side, swallowed in his left hand. In a mock sonorous voice he quoted, “Once more into the breach, dear friends.”
Danny Olson had started working for Ottoman while he was still in high school. He’d pushed drugs, broken heads, stolen cars, and hijacked trucks, anything and everything that Ottoman had asked him to do. He was now a trusted lieutenant in Ottoman’s growing organization.
Tonight his job was to disrupt the rave being put on by Tommy Croaker. Ottoman wanted a piece of the rave action. There was a lot of fast money floating around in the underground parties, and they could also act as great laundries for dirty money from other ventures. Croaker didn’t want to play ball, however, which meant he had to be taught a lesson.
Olson had been behind the PCP squirt gun attacks from a few weeks earlier. Croaker hadn’t been brought into line, but he had folded his parties for a while. He was now operating again and Ottoman didn’t want competition that wasn’t paying its way.
Rumor had it that Croaker’s sister was a cop, but that didn’t cut much cheese with Olson. He’d done time inside, and he knew he’d do time again. Inside or out didn’t make much difference to him. Either way, it was survival of the fittest.
Sitting beside Olson was Jaime Baca, a weasel faced youth who would do anything to get into a fight. He rolled a Louisville slugger between hands graced with knife fighter’s fingers.
In the back seat were the Anderson twins, Denny and Gary, looking like tag team rejects from the World Wrestling Foundation. They loved to hit things, people, cars, walls – it didn’t matter. If it tried to hit back, all the better. Chunky metal rings adorned all of their fingers under initials that spelled out the traditional ‘hate’ and ‘love.’
“Whaddya think?” Baca asked, as the Camaro drove past the warehouse for the second time.
“Croaker’s beefed up security, but it don’t look like anything we can’t handle,” Olson said. “You guys ain’t scared of women with muscles are you?” he asked the twins sitting behind him.
Denny Anderson giggled. “Me and Gary will handle ‘em,” he said and giggled again. “Grab ‘em by their tits and toss ‘em around like swinging a cat by the tail.”
Denny elbowed Gary sitting next to him. Gary giggled, and butted heads with Denny.
“You guys are screwed up,” Olson said, watching the pair in the rear-view mirror.
“Hey, man,” Baca said suddenly. “What’s that?”
Olson brought his eyes back to the road and saw a decent looking woman staggering down the middle of the roadway.
“Now, would you look at that,” Olson said. “Anybody in the mood for a bit of over the hill pussy?”
“What about Croaker’s rave?” Baca asked.
Olson slowed the Camaro down to walking pace. “It ain’t even in full swing yet. We got time. Screw first, fight later.”
“My kinda party,” Denny said from the back seat.
“Can we thump her when we’re done?” Gary asked.
“Why not?” Olson replied. “She’s so drunk, she’ll never notice.”
Fey tried not to overdo the drunken gait as she stumbled down the middle of the street. Her hair was mussed, and her clothes were artfully disheveled. She could hear the Camaro coming up behind her, but she didn’t want to turn and look at it just yet.
She heard the car slowing.
“Hey, Mama,” Olson said through his lowered window.
Fey stopped walking and turned to look at him with glassy eyes. “What?” she asked through a slur.
This is too easy, Olson thought, sensing something wasn’t quite right as he stopped the car next to her. His little head, however, had taken over the thinking process for his big head. His misgivings were chased away by thoughts of playin hide the salami with this woman who had dropped into their laps.
Fey leaned over on the car door. Her blouse was unbuttoned to the point where Olson got a full view of her creamy breasts. Her arm slid off the door and she slithered awkwardly down to the ground beside the stopped car.
“Man, is she out of it,” Baca said, his voice excited. He opened his door and started to move around the back of the car. “We gonna do her good.”
Olson opened the driver’s side door. He put one foot on the ground and began to lever himself out of the vehicle.
From the ground, Fey waited for the moment when Olson’s body weight was moving forward and his balance in transition. Hoping her timing was right she flashed out a hand and grabbed Olson by his exposed crotch. She squeezed hard, digging her nails in, and pulled. Olson screamed.
Moving like a wraith, Ash flowed out of the shadows on the other side of the street. Knowing he didn’t have the strength for an extended fight, he was fully concentrated on doing things right the first time.
As Baca rounded the trunk of the Camaro, distracted by Olson’s scream, Ash slid into position behind him. With precision born of desperation, he drove the point of his cowboy boo
t into the back of Baca’s knee.
Baca’s head snapped back as his knee gave out. Ash grabbed a fist-full of long, greasy hair and bounced Baca’s face off the Camaro’s trunk. The Louisville slugger clattered to the ground as Baca’s senseless fingers lost their grip.
Taking advantage of Olson’s off-balance weight, Fey hung on to the young thug’s scrotum and pulled him to the ground. Maintaining her grip, she rolled over on top of him and drove the business end of her .38 into the soft flesh below the his ear and behind his jawbone.
In the back seat of the car, Denny and Gary didn’t know exactly what was happening. Denny pushed the driver’s seat forward and started to clamber out.
From her position on top of Olson, Fey kicked the Camaro’s driver’s door hard as she saw Denny’s foot touch the ground. The heavy door flew back and crushed Denny’s knee in the jam. He howled and fell back into the car’s interior.
On the other side, Gary tried to lever himself out from behind the passenger seat. He pulled up short when Ash slammed the flat side of his five shot Smith & Wesson into Gary’s forehead. The big thug grunted and dropped back.
Ash slammed the passenger door closed, and holding the five shot in a two handed grip, rested it on the door through the open window. “I want to see hands, now!” he yelled. His voice was deep and commanding, easily penetrating the music blasting from the car stereo.
Denny and Gary had been this route before and immediately placed their hand flat on the headrests of the seats in front of them. Blood ran freely into Gary’s eyes from the gash on his forehead. The pain from Denny’s crushed knee screamed along his nerve endings. Neither brother, however, whimpered or complained. Trapped in the back of the Camaro, they were in a no-win situation, and they had both been around long enough to know when to cut their losses.
Ash took one hand off his gun long enough to reach in and hit the power button on the car stereo, killing the tape in the deck. “You boys must have serious hearing impairments,” he said in wonder to his docile captives.
