by Tom Pitts
“DeWildt would lose. Don’t worry, I’d still get paid. Lay off the conspiracy theories and let’s think about getting your wife back safe and sound, shall we?”
A decision had been reached and they were back on the freeway, hurtling west on the I-80. Linda wasn’t sure who won their argument, or where exactly they were going. Cold night air blew in through Jason’s window but all the other windows were closed. She thought about the man whose car they were riding in. Was he as lost in the darkness as she felt back there in the cornfield? Was he even alive?
Music blared loud from the radio and Juliet kept switching stations. It would jump from a heavy beat to screaming guitars to commercials to Mexican salsa, all of it ratcheting up the pain in Linda’s head. A heavy wave of exhaustion pulled her down and she wondered if she was slipping into shock. She only needed to move a muscle, flex her hand, and stabbing pain would bring her back into terrible consciousness.
They carried on that way for many miles, the four of them silent, cocooned in the racket of the radio. Then Jason spun down the volume. “You need to call Ronnell, let him know we’re coming.”
Juliet groaned at the idea. “I don’t want to talk to that piece of shit. He’s your cousin, you call him.”
Jason hit the steering wheel with the flat of his palm. “I’m fucking driving, Juliet. Just fucking call him so we know he’s there.”
They cut through Golden Gate Park and flew down Lincoln, catching all the timed lights. The early mist was heavy enough to slick the streets and, although they passed other cars moving east, there was no one else going their way. Gary knew they’d soon run out of road and they’d be at the beach.
“How far out does this guy live?”
“All the way,” Calper said. “La Playa. At Kirkham, maybe. I’ll know when I see the numbers, I’ll recognize the address. I looked at the street map earlier, it’s 1448, I think.”
When they’d reached the end, Calper turned left at a Shell station before Lincoln forced them onto the Great Highway. They started down the two short blocks to Kirkham making sure they weren’t passing the place up, Calper with his window rolled down and Gary leaning over, examining the addresses. There was only one side to search. The other side, on their right, was a thin traffic island separating them from a frontage road and the Great Highway. Beyond that there was the beach, the edge of the continent, the Pacific Ocean.
“That’s it,” Calper said, hitting the brakes.
They stopped in front of a two-story apartment, three if you counted the garage below. The two floors of apartments were stacked on one another like a layer cake, except the place looked old and unkempt. The buildings on either side had been painted and upgraded, but 1448 La Playa had a gate that’d been rusted from the saltwater in the air and windows looking like they hadn’t been cleaned since the fifties. Calper pulled the Taurus into the driveway and the faded, peeling automatic garage door began to rise.
Calper said, “Somebody’s expecting company.”
He didn’t pull the car forward. He rolled it back, double-parked in front of the building, and pulled the PPK’s clip-on holster from under the seat and stuck the Walther into it.
“You coming?” he said to Gary.
Gary nodded and climbed out on his side, glancing at the empty street on either side of him.
They arrived at the rusty steel gate and Calper realized he wasn’t sure which bell to push, upper or lower. He pressed his head against the steel bars and tried to look up the stairs for a clue. The gate buzzed. Surprised, he looked back at Gary then pushed the gate open. A melodic voice came down the stairs in front of them.
“What’s up? That was quick. Pull your car in and c’mon up. I got chili on the stove!”
Gary screwed his face up, confused, but Calper knew exactly what was happening. With a wave, he beckoned Gary to follow. He drew the PPK from his belt holster and stepped up the stairs, gun at his side, but ready.
“Hello?” the voice sang from upstairs.
Calper and Gary took a few more steps up the dirty marble staircase. The warm smell of onions and high-grade marijuana floated down to them. Calper could see the front door now; it was open and no one stood in the threshold. He raised the gun shoulder-height and stepped toward the doorway. Music played lightly inside, and there were sounds from the kitchen, something frying.
“I thought you guys might be hungry so I started fixing something. I’m fucking starving myself, so I hope you don’t mind.”
Ronnell held a wooden spoon and he stirred a pot of thick-looking sauce.
Calper pointed the gun at his head and said, “Put the spoon down.”
Ronnell dropped the ladle into the pot and stepped back, bumping into the sink counter behind him. The sight of Calper’s face confused him more than the gun pointed at him. “Where’s Jason?”
“Come out of the kitchen. Let’s go.”
Ronnell moved without turning his back on Calper, keeping his hands raised in front of him. When he saw Gary he said, “Who…who are you guys? Where’s Jason?”
“Siddown,” Calper said and pushed Ronnell onto a low futon couch that sat on the floor behind a coffee table.
Gary looked around the apartment. It was like something out of the sixties. Mismatched brightly colored furniture, posters from old rock concerts, too old for any of them to have seen. A tall purple bong rested on a small table at one end of the futon. A cheap imitation lava lamp sat unplugged on a bookshelf, the oil and waxes pimpled into unpleasant little bubbles. The apartment suited Ronell nicely. He was too young to have been a hippie, but he seemed to have adopted the look, soft, overweight, a scruff framing his face that was stuck between a beard and peach fuzz. Gary’d run across his kind plenty. He was wholly unoriginal and out of date. A character caught in a different time, unable to change and grow with the rest of the world.
“How long till he’s supposed to get here?” Calper asked.
Ronnell folded his arms and frowned. He reminded Gary of a petulant child.
Calper took a step toward him and asked, “Your cousin, Jason. How long did he say till he’s going to get here?”
Ronnell narrowed his eyes and shook his head slowly. “Man, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t even know who you are.”
Calper exchanged the gun from his right hand to his left and pulled back the coffee table with the back of his calf. Now he towered over Ronnell.
“You’re an idiot, Ronnell.” Without waiting for an answer or comment, he slapped Ronnell hard with his open palm.
The smack was hollow and loud. Gary stumbled back, surprised at the sudden eruption of violence, surprised at the shift in Calper’s character. Calper took the Walther from his left hand and pressed the muzzle into the top of the man’s head. Ronnell looked terrified. He squinted like someone was throwing salt in his eyes.
“I don’t know, man, I don’t know.”
“You know he’s in trouble, right? Why else would he call you? He’s a fuck-up, Ronnell. You know this. Why are you going to let him pull you down? You’re going to end up in prison, you understand? He’s got a woman with him. You let him in here and you’re going down on kidnapping. He fucking killed someone, you dumbfuck. You’re already a coconspirator after the fact. On murder. Do you even know what that means, Ronnell?”
Gary watched Calper work Ronnell, throwing out bluffs like the coconspirator thing. It was having an effect; the man was visibly caving, his chest folding in, his lower lip quivering.
“Less than an hour. That’s what he said. Less than an hour.”
Calper glanced back at Gary. How was that possible? It seemed too long. Did they make a stop? Why would they make a stop? Gary’s mind jumped to conclusions. Body disposals, rapes, tortures.
The phone rang.
An old landline with a shrill ring. It sat on a pile of old magazines on the end table at the far left of the couch, opposite the
table with the bong. The three of them turned their heads at the phone at once.
Second ring.
“It’s him,” Gary said.
“I know it’s him,” Calper pointed the gun again at Ronnell’s head, saying, “Answer it. Don’t let him know we’re here.” As if to underscore his seriousness, he poked him again in the head with the PPK’s barrel. “I mean it.”
Chapter Twenty
Third ring.
“Pick it up,” Gary urged.
Ronnell leaned over and grabbed the receiver on the fourth ring.
“Hello? What?…What?”
Calper leaned in to hear the voice coming through the receiver. But it wasn’t Jason, he knew that right away. The high nasal tone of Ashton Taber seeped through the line.
Calper snatched the receiver away from Ronnell. “What’s up, Taber?”
“Calper? Is that you? What’re you doing there?”
“What do you mean, what am I doing here? My job, that’s what.”
“Well, good, good. I’m glad I have you on the phone.”
“If you wanted to speak to me, you could’ve called my cell. What I want to know is why you’re calling here. You think he’s going to show? Why didn’t you tell me he was heading here?”
“We didn’t know for sure, but I just got another call from him. He wants to work a deal.”
“Bullshit. What kind of deal?”
“He’s scared, Calper. He wants to come in from the cold.”
“What the fuck does that even mean?”
“He wants us to pick him up. He wants representation. He said the thing at the gas station was self-defense.”
“He wants you to provide representation? You gotta be kidding me. This kid is on more drugs than I thought.”
“He’s out of options. What else can he do?”
Calper rubbed his head and turned away from the other two. “What do you want me to do?”
“Same as before. Bring him in, broker the deal. Make sure that woman gets the hell out of there.”
“He wants a lawyer? You got someone in mind?”
“He mentioned the guy from Sacramento, Kent.”
“Paulson? The guy he put in the hospital?” Calper snorted.
“This is what I’m telling you, Calper. The boy is delusional. He’s dangerous. You’ve got to treat him like a live grenade.”
“Is the old man with you?”
Taber ignored the question. “Kent isn’t even a criminal attorney, he’s a fucking lobbyist. Specializes in corporate tax. Jason hasn’t thought any of this out, that why he’s so volatile. Even if he’s willing to cooperate with us, he still wants to evade police.”
“Did you tell him he’s going to have to turn himself in?”
“He doesn’t want to hear that stuff. He doesn’t want to think about jail right now, he wants to know there’s somewhere he can go. Somewhere safe.”
“This is a mistake,” Juliet said. “What’re we even doing here? Let’s just keep driving, south, back home.”
They were in San Francisco now. Linda didn’t know where and she guessed they didn’t either. They rolled past blocks of houses with Jason hooking erratic rights and lefts, as though they were being followed. They plowed past stop signs and only paused at red lights. Linda prayed a cop would see them.
“We don’t have a choice. I already told you. This car is too fucking hot and you know it. We gotta dump this bitch in back. She ain’t doing us no good. They know about Bomber by now. We’re fucked.”
“That’s not what you said, that’s not what you told them. I heard you,” Juliet’s voice cracking into a childlike wail.
They were on Fulton now. Linda recognized it because Golden Gate Park was on their left as they shot out toward the beach. She watched the boy beside her grip his door handle. Juliet and Jason’s argument volleyed back and forth from the back seat to the front, Juliet still on Linda’s left, yelling in her ear.
“What do you think they’re going to do for you, Jason? You think they wanna help?”
“They have to. They need me.”
Juliet barked a sarcastic laugh. “You’re joking. After what they did to me? You think they’re going to forget all that and help you?”
The car slowed at a light and the kid made his move. He popped open his door and flung himself out. He hit the ground rolling, his tiny frame tumbling and twisting before coming to a stop. He sprang up and darted across the street and into the darkness of the park.
Jason hit the brakes and the CR-V ground to a halt. “Shit.”
Juliet shrieked. “You gotta be kiddin’ me. What the fuck? After the shit we did for him? Go get him! Go get him!”
“You fuckin’ go get him. I’m driving.”
Juliet hopped out of the car and ran to where Russell entered the park, a spot where the uncut grass had been folded over. It was wet and tall and, beyond a few feet, Juliet couldn’t see anything but black. “Fuck,” she yelled into the darkness. She took a few steps, lifting her knees high to avoid the moisture, and almost slipped on a mossy log. “Russell,” she called. “You get back here. You can’t stay out there. The cops’ll be looking for you.” Her voice softened. “It’s not safe. Russ-ell,” she cooed, “come out of there. We’ll be alright. But we got to stay together. Russ-ell.”
“He’s not a fuckin’ dog,” Jason said from his open window. “We can’t waste time, we have to go. Leave him. He’s on his own.”
Juliet spun around and hissed, “He’s a fucking witness. He has to come.”
Jason laid on the horn and leaned out his window. “Russell, get the fuck out here. Let’s go.”
“Jesus, Jason, you’re gonna wake up the whole neighborhood.”
“I’m serious, Juliet. We have to leave him. Let’s go.”
Juliet stomped out of the grass and across the street, then stopped dead before she reached the back door to the CR-V.
“Jason!”
Jason swung around in his seat to see Linda with her hand on the right-side door handle. The door was already cracked by inches. She’d unbuckled her seatbelt and slid all the way over. He reached over the seat and grabbed her by the hair.
“What’d I tell you about shooting you in the back of the head?” Using the fistful of hair, he yanked her head into the back of the seat in front of her. “You want to die tonight? Do you?” He slammed her head against the seatback twice more before releasing her with disgust.
Juliet was in the back seat now, clamped onto Linda’s arm. “Drive. If we’re gonna do this, let’s go.”
Taber was in the kitchen now, dropping ice cubes into a tumbler and cracking open a can of Diet Pepsi. Stephan DeWildt leaned on the moulded doorway and watched but did not see him. His mind was elsewhere.
“I talked to him. Calper, I mean, not Ronnell. They’re there, at Ronnell’s. Him and the husband.”
Stephan took his eyes off Taber’s tumbler. “You think Jason’s going to make it there?”
“I dunno. He’s close, I think. This husband, he’s the wild card. Ronnell is no problem, he’ll do what he’s told. Calper, I think he’ll stick to the game plan. But the husband? Who knows how he’s going to react. I just hope his wife is in one piece.”
Stephan nodded to himself. “I’ve sent Martek. Just in case.”
Taber frowned. Martek Mosely was DeWildt’s cleanup guy. When he stepped into the picture there was no telling where the cleanup was going to stop. Taber’s mouth felt dry and he sipped the cola, the fizz of the soda popping near his nose. “Why? I told you I had this. I think Calper’s still going to deliver.”
Stephan looked up, his eyes tired and bloodshot. “You think? You haven’t sounded confident since my sister moved out of that house. I took on Dennings at your behest, but it’s taken too long and things are clearly spinning out of control. Martek is up there. He arrived this afternoon. He’s ready. Insura
nce.”
Stephan turned his back on Taber and left the kitchen, probably to go smoke another cigarette. Taber stood alone, feeling suddenly cold. The diet soda left an unpleasant aftertaste on his tongue. He reached over the fridge to the cupboard where Stephan kept his liquor and pulled out a bottle of bourbon. He uncapped it and poured a healthy plug into his tumbler.
Martek was already in place, easily concealed in the tall grass on the sandy dunes separating the Great Highway from Ocean Beach. He’d been camped out there before Calper Dennings and Gary Carson showed up, but he had to wait. Wait for the real target. Jason DeWildt. The salt air from the sea whipped around him but it felt good, he’d prepared by dressing appropriately. He was comfortable, patient.
Jason’s crime spree tonight gave Martek the greenlight to act as he saw fit. So long as he could escape. That was his specialty: escaping unnoticed. His crimes were always discovered, but his identity was not.
From steel mills to gin mills he’d practiced his passion for brutality, but it wasn’t until he’d hooked up with his boss at a meatpacking plant in Oklahoma that he discovered it was more than mere passion. It was a calling. And it was that same boss from the meatpacking plant, Stephan DeWildt, who taught him it was a potential career.
The Oklahoma plant was a huge operation, both in terms of money and meat. They supplied several distribution networks that covered the better part of the western United States. It should have been hugely profitable too, but they were hemorrhaging cash. A slow and steady drip DeWildt recognized as embezzlement. By the time he’d figured out how the scam worked, he realized the culprit bleeding him had already spent most of the money. The law would be useless in delivering him revenge or his money back. So he called on Martek. That was the first time.
The only problem was, although it paid well, there was never enough work for his liking.
Martek stood with his Swarovski CL pocket binoculars—a brand he bought because it sounded Polish, like him—pressed against his eyes, watching the shadows move in the apartment above the garage across the street. He wondered, by the time the sun came up, how many of these fools he was going to have to kill. Be able to kill.
